#gavin3469

[mapsthewanderer]

Caleb’s headcanon -

The Vanguard

Synopsis: Days and weeks of distance and unresolved emotions due to the falling out in Skyhaven. You now find yourself spending the weekend with Caleb. He has a surprise worth your time.

Details: Longer story/3000ish w. Angsty nostalgia. Banter. Yearning losers. Warmth. Pet names. And fluffy love. Lots of it. Feral smooch. Brace yourself for romance iow)

Sanctuary bound

The forest is thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, the air cool and crisp as the evening deepens. The canopy overhead filters the last remnants of daylight, streaks of golden orange and soft violet spilling through the spaces between the branches. You hear the distant rustling of unseen creatures, the occasional chirp of a bird settling into its nest for the night. It’s quiet, peaceful, save for the sound of your boots crunching over fallen leaves and the steady, rhythmic steps of Caleb beside you.

You hadn’t expected this when he pulled you away from the train station, promising something worth your time. You had grumbled, just a little, about the impromptu adventure—but Caleb had looked at you with that infuriating confidence, a knowing smile tugging at his lips, and you had relented. He always did have a way of convincing you. And now, here you are, pushing through underbrush, feeling the sting of a rogue branch as it snaps against your chin.

A sharp crack, a rustle, and then Caleb turns abruptly, eyes scanning you with instant concern. “Pip? You alright there?” His voice is warm, laced with something close to guilt, as if he personally offended you by letting the forest misbehave.

You press a hand to your chin, feeling the scratch. It’s nothing serious, barely a sting, but before you can even reassure him, Caleb reaches for the offending branch and snaps it in his hands with unnecessary force, breaking it down into crumbling bits of bark and wood. So much wrath for one little branch.

Amused, you shake your head, rubbing the sore spot. “Yeah, sure. But you better have an explanation for making this pretty face suffer another scratch.” You flash him a smirk, and just like that, the worry in his eyes fades, replaced by something softer—relief, maybe.

He exhales, giving a light chuckle. “I promise it’ll be worth it,” he says again, just as he did at the train station, but this time, his voice holds more weight, like he truly means it. He takes your hand, fingers lacing through yours, and pulls you forward, leading you through the last stretch of the forest.

Then, suddenly, you see it.

The trees part just enough to reveal something nestled within the embrace of a towering oak. Your breath catches, your steps slowing until you come to a full stop. The world around you seems to blur, the sounds of the forest fading into the background as you take it in.

A tree hut.

Not just any tree hut—one that feels like a memory wrapped in twilight. It’s small but sturdy, clearly built with care, perched between the thick branches like it belongs there, like it’s always been waiting for you to find it. Warm, golden lights flicker along the railing, casting a soft glow against the wood, and small lanterns dangle from the entrance, swaying ever so slightly in the breeze. The setting sun paints the scene in hues of amber and lilac, and for a moment, it almost feels unreal.

Your lips part, but words fail you. Instead, you murmur his name. “Caleb…”

The nostalgia hits hard, wrapping around you like a warm embrace. It’s not just a tree hut—it’s a piece of the past, a reflection of something lost but never forgotten.

Caleb, standing beside you, watches you take it in, his eyes glinting with quiet anticipation. He leans against the base of the tree, arms crossed, the hint of a proud smile ghosting his lips. “So? Not bad for a guy who’s hammered his own thumb more times than he’d like to admit, huh?” He nudges you playfully, but his gaze flickers with something deeper, waiting for your reaction.

You shake your head, barely able to process it all. “Caleb, this is…” You swallow, still staring up at the hut, your heart pounding with something you can’t quite name. “This is just like back then… like the hut we had.”

His grip tightens around your hand, steady and grounding. “Well,” he murmurs, tilting his head toward you, “that was my initial inspiration, at least. But, you know, I like to think I’ve taken some creative liberties—call it an artist’s touch.”

You glance at him, feeling the weight of the moment settle between you. Then, with a deep breath, you step forward, reaching for the rope ladder. The woven strands feel rough against your fingers, solid and real, anchoring you in the present. You take your first step, the ladder swaying ever so slightly beneath you.

And then, of course, Caleb has to be Caleb.

With an impish grin, he gives the ladder a light tug, making it sway just enough to throw you off balance. Your grip tightens instinctively, a startled laugh escaping your lips.

“Caleb!”

He chuckles, hands already ready to steady you if needed—just like when you were kids. “What?” he says innocently, though the amusement in his voice betrays him. “Just making sure you remember how to climb.”

Rolling your eyes, you huff but keep going, knowing full well that if you were to slip, his arms would be there to catch you. Just like always.

As you pull yourself up into the tree hut, the wooden floor greets you with a gentle creak—not from weakness, but from character. It feels sturdy beneath your feet, built with care and precision, a far cry from the fragile planks of the childhood hut that once groaned under every shift of weight.

That old hut had been a sanctuary, but an imperfect one, where the wind whispered through the cracks and the rain dripped through the uneven roof. It had been a place of hiding—of huddling under threadbare blankets, the scent of damp wood and childhood fears lingering in the air while thunder rolled outside. Back then, Caleb’s voice had been your anchor, steady and unshaken, pulling you away from fear with whispered reassurances and quiet jokes, protecting you from the storm with nothing but his presence.

But this? This was something else entirely. Artist’s touch, indeed. Caleb’s touch.

The tree hut feels like a rustic cottage suspended among the branches. The walls are thick, made of polished wood that gleams in the glow of string lights. The single-room space is simple yet inviting—soft pillows scattered across the floor, a woven basket filled with plush blankets, and a cozy, fur-lined rug that begs to be sat upon. The air carries the faint scent of cedar and something sweet, like vanilla candles or aged parchment. It’s warm here, intimate, like stepping into a memory that has been lovingly restored.

As Caleb pulls himself up behind you with a faint huff, you smirk, arms crossed. “Carpenter and interior designer?”

He ruffles his ashen brown hair, momentarily shy at the praise, his fingers threading through the messy strands as he avoids your gaze. For just a second, he looks caught off guard, his usual confidence flickering in the warm light. Then, with a laugh, he recovers, shifting back into his easy charm. “Well,” he says, rolling his shoulders, “I’m actually more pleased with the mural.”

Caleb tilts his head upward, motioning for you to follow his gaze.

And then you see them.

Suspended from the ceiling, a constellation of delicate paper planes drifts in the air, illuminated by strings of fairy lights that twist and weave between them like threads of golden magic. They hang at different heights—some near enough to touch, others floating higher, dancing in the soft night breeze that sneaks through the open window. Some are crisp and perfectly folded, others slightly crumpled, as if they’ve been sent soaring through the sky before finding their place here. They glow under the light, casting soft, flickering shadows across the ceiling, transforming the hut into a dreamscape.

A breath of wonder escapes you, barely more than a whisper. “Woah…”

Caleb watches your reaction with quiet satisfaction before slipping his fingers around yours. His grip is firm yet unhurried, warm against your skin as he gently pulls you toward the railing. You let him guide you, your mind still lingering in the magic of the ceiling above, only for your breath to catch again as you take in the sight before you.

The world stretches out beyond the hut in a breathtaking display of twilight. The sky, once streaked with the last remnants of the sun, has deepened into a canvas of indigo and violet, the first stars beginning to shimmer against the darkness. The forest below rustles softly, a living thing, its vast expanse of treetops rolling like ocean waves beneath the cool night air. In the distance, beyond the silhouettes of trees, faint glimmers of city lights pulse on the horizon, a quiet reminder of the world beyond this hidden sanctuary.

Caleb leans against the railing, his back to the view, resting his palms on the wooden frame as he watches you instead. But you stand facing outward, drinking in the sight, letting the hush of the night settle around you like a well-worn cloak.

It feels… unreal.

Like something out of a story. Like something meant to be found only in dreams.

The weight of it all crashes down on you in slow, suffocating waves.

Standing there at the railing, wrapped in the golden glow of string lights and the cool hush of the night, you feel something deep in your chest—something unbearably tight, unbearably warm, and aching all the same. You don’t know how to repay him for this. You don’t know why he’s done this, why he’s poured so much thought, so much care into recreating something you once shared.

Because you haven’t done anything to deserve this.

Quite the opposite, actually.

Skyhaven still lingers in the back of your mind, a phantom that refuses to fade. The weight of those months apart, the unspoken words, the way you had refused—carelessly—to see what had been in front of you all along. Caleb had always been there, unwavering, steady as ever, and yet, when the moment had come, you hadn’t realized. Not soon enough. Not before things had cracked between you. And, sure, he had acted out of place, he had said things that had made you recoil—but had it really been so wrong of him to finally let it slip? After all those years, after all that time spent protecting you, being by your side, waiting—

Was this his way of apologizing?

Was this entire thing—a hut built with his hands, a recreation of something precious—his way of making up for how you had parted ways?

Your throat tightens, eyes suddenly stinging with the weight of too many emotions. Good, bad, tangled and ugly, all of them knotting together in a way that makes it impossible to sort through. You try to blink it back, but Caleb notices. Of course he does.

His voice is a gentle murmur, unsure, laced with concern. “H-hey, Pips…”

You barely register the nickname before he’s pulling you in, his arms wrapping around you in a solid, grounding embrace. The moment your face presses into his chest, it’s over—you shatter. A small, choked breath escapes, and you cling to him, fists curling into the fabric of his shirt as you bury yourself against him.

His arms tighten. Strong. Secure. His scent surrounds you—warm and heady, tinged with the faintest trace of cedarwood, metal, and something undeniably him, something that’s always meant safety. It’s dizzying, how much warmth he carries, how easily he envelopes you, as if he’s trying to shield you from whatever storm is raging inside of you. His fingers stroke through your hair, slow and steady, his palm pressing gentle circles against your back.

“If I knew you’d react like this…” He exhales against your hair, voice barely above a sigh, thick with worry. He had wanted to create something new, to make something good out of something old. And now, he’s worried he’s only dragged you back into the past, into everything you still haven’t figured out how to sort through.

You feel him shift, his grip never leaving you as he guides you down to the soft carpet. The moment you settle, he tugs a thick blanket over the both of you, cocooning you in warmth—his warmth, the scent of worn fabric and something that reminds you of home. The home you once shared.

Your head rests against his chest, nestled between the firm planes of his muscles, the cool edge of his dog tag pressing against your cheek. It’s a contrast—the cold of metal, the solid warmth of him, the steady, rhythmic thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear.

It’s too much. It’s so much.

And yet, in all of it, in the swirl of emotions and unsaid things, one thought surfaces. One memory.

Your voice is quiet, still heavy with emotion as you murmur, “Back then, the storm was always outside… and you’d shield me from it. But now…”

At first, Caleb doesn’t react. He only exhales, long and slow, fingers threading through your hair as if the motion is second nature. Then, after a beat, you feel the shift—the way his breath hitches ever so slightly, the way his hold tightens, if only for a moment.

When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. Not quite hurt, but something close. Something resigned.

“Pips… You don’t want to be in that situation any longer, do you?” His voice is quiet, hesitant, like he’s afraid to say the next part—that you don’t want him as your shield, as your guardian anymore. And maybe that fear cuts deeper than he lets on. Because he had already told you—he was tired of playing games. Tired of waiting, of hoping, of holding onto something that never seemed to be his. And now, from his perspective, it looks like the game is already lost.

And when you tilt your head up, peering at him from beneath the blanket, you see it—the small, pained smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. The sadness hidden behind familiarity. The unspoken weight of something he’s always known.

The ache in your chest becomes unbearable, swelling until it’s impossible to contain. It’s not just longing, not just guilt or nostalgia—it’s him. Caleb, who has always been there. Caleb, who has always been yours, even when you were too blind to see it. And now, looking at him—seeing the quiet sadness in his expression, the way he has convinced himself that you don’t want this, that you don’t want him—it shatters something inside of you.

You can’t let him think that.

So, without thinking, without hesitation, without fear, you lean in.

Your lips press to his—soft, barely there, as delicate as a whisper. It’s not desperate, not at first. It’s a simple truth, an offering, a promise wrapped in warmth. Caleb stills beneath the blanket, his breath caught, his entire body rigid with disbelief. You feel it—how his pulse stutters, how his fingers twitch where they rest against your skin.

Then, slowly, his fingers trail up, brushing your chin, his thumb tracing over the faint scar left by the branch. His touch is feather-light, reverent, as if he’s making sure you’re real, as if he’s afraid you’ll pull away, that this is some cruel trick of the universe.

Then, tentatively, he leans in, pressing the smallest, faintest kiss to your lips—just a whisper of contact. Another follows, and another, each one delicate, testing, almost unsure. His eyes remain open between them, searching yours, flickering with something raw and disbelieving, as if he’s waiting for the moment you vanish, for reality to snap back and prove this isn’t happening.

But you don’t vanish.

Instead, your eyes flutter shut, your breath catching as warmth blooms in your chest, melting through you like honey. His lips are soft, impossibly warm, and every feather-light brush sends the sweetest shiver down your spine. It feels so right—so achingly, breathtakingly right—that you can’t help but sink into it, letting the moment envelop you, letting him envelop you.

And then, something shifts. He realizes.

He realizes what you’re offering—who you’re offering. You. All of you.

And Caleb breaks.

The blanket flies, forgotten, as he moves, surging forward with the force of everything he’s ever held back. He casts himself over you, bracing himself above you, his body caging yours in the most intoxicating way. And then his lips crash into yours—not tentative, not careful, but desperate. Starved. Like every kiss he’s ever saved for you has finally been unleashed, one after the other, colliding into you in a feverish, uncontrollable frenzy.

Soft ones. Sweet ones. Feral ones.

He kisses you like he’s drowning in you, like you are the air he’s been deprived of for far too long, and now that he has you, he can’t stop. His breath is hot and heavy between kisses, ragged as he moves, as his hands trace over your curves, skimming over the fabric of your clothes like they alone are an obstacle keeping him from truly knowing you. His fingers dig into your waist, firm yet worshipful, his touch possessive but not demanding—just needing.

Then, between kisses, between the way his lips ghost over yours, bruised and breathless, he exhales, voice wrecked, raw with yearning.

“What are you doing to me, Pips…?”

He presses another kiss, slow, deep, savoring, as if trying to make sense of it, but then he pulls back just enough for his forehead to rest against yours, his breath fanning over your lips, uneven, unsteady. His hands tremble slightly where they hold you, gripping like he’s afraid to let go, like he doesn’t even know how to anymore. His voice drops, husky, desperate.

“I don’t— I can’t stop. You don’t know what you’ve started, do you? Do you even understand the consequences of this?”

His lips find your jaw, your neck, the exposed curve of your collarbone, each kiss more fervent, more unrestrained. He groans softly, inhaling your scent like it’s intoxicating him, like you’re something he’s wanted for so long that now that he finally has you, he’s undone.

And you respond in kind, your own hands sliding up his arms, feeling the taut muscles beneath his shirt, the way they tense beneath your touch. You rake your fingers through his ashen brown hair, tugging slightly, and the sound he makes—a low, guttural noise deep in his throat—sends a shiver down your spine.

Then, suddenly, he bites you. A little too hard. Sharp enough to make you gasp, your head tilting back just slightly.

You exhale a breathless laugh, dazed and dizzy in the heat of it all, and smirk at him. “Careful, Colonel.”

Caleb pauses, his lips still lingering at your throat, and then he smirks back. A slow, wicked thing against your skin, laced with something dark and knowing. He pulls back just enough to meet your gaze, eyes dark, hungry, utterly gone on you.

“I told you so, didn’t I?” he murmurs, voice rich with heat, a teasing glint in his gaze as his fingers trace along your jaw, his thumb brushing the faint indent of his teeth against your skin.

“These are the consequences.”

Writer’s note: You guys I’m almost in tears because I just want them to be happy and I’ve had a blast writing this. I wanted him to break like the way he broke that twig in the forest. Okey then, thank you for reading peeps and thank you Gavin3469 for sending me that wonderful song that sparked my creativity 🫶🏻 (oh and say hi to my new lil avatar tihihi)

[apple-caleb]

drawin' me, while i'm lookin' at you. i see what you did there, pip-squeak.

but yeah... i really like it. and since i really like it, it's mine now. 🧡 just like the artist is, riiight? :)

"Looking at you duh" A drawing that can't be drawn without love

I really love drawing Caleb, sometimes I get worried that maybe he doesnt look like him, but then I remeber my art teacher said a long time ago "Only you can draw them like that". Kind reminder to everyone who have a hobby is that only you can do it the way you do it, hope it makes sense.

[that-one-scoundrel]

Made for @gavin3469

[bunbun-mochi]

Soothing to Sleep

Caleb x MC (in a relationship)

Warning: Fluff, lots of fluff.

Word Count: 2019, no proofreading

Preview: Caleb had been tired from all the work he'd been doing as a Colonel. You can tell the dark circle under his eyes so you decided to pamper him and help him sleep.

Note: Wrote this instead of studying. Gonna ace that exam. Colonel Caleb, send me luck. Lots of it.

Tagging: @madam8, @gavin3469

Caleb scowled as he read the reports. The more reports he read, the more ridiculous it gets. Ever since he came back from the deepspace tunnel routine yesterday, the work just seems neverending. As soon as he finishes one stack of paperwork, Liam just walks in with another stack of paperwork to finish. To make matters worse, his subordinates don't seem to behave. Every now and then, Liam would report in trouble from the lower ranks. In most cases, they could've solved the problem if they had done their job. As if on cue, Liam called in.

"Colonel," Liam's voice rang in Caleb's earpiece. "The captain of the 8th squadron asked for your presence. He said there had been a problem among the soldiers."

"What sort of problem?" Caleb asked. It sounded more of a frustration than a question.

"I'm not sure. He said a fight had happened." Liam answered.

"I'll be right there," Caleb said before ending the call. He sighed loudly before walking out of his office. This better be good.

Caleb's eyes twitched slightly when he walked to the so-called problem. Four soldiers were in a fistfight, taunting each other, while the other soldiers cheered. He glared at the captain of this group, "I'm pretty sure your job specifically says that you take care of any fights within your squadron?"

The captain hung his head as if feeling shameful, "I tried, but I don't have the capabilities-"

"No capabilities to stop a fight?" Caleb clicked his tongue. He walked toward the fight.

"Stop fighting this instant." A cold voice sliced through the air, and many soldiers who were cheering immediately stopped to turn to see that the colonel himself had arrived at the scene. The crowd near Caleb slowly moved away, either trying to allow the colonel to walk toward the fight or moving away from him to prevent repercussions.

Even with the colonel's orders and the silence of the crowd, the four soldiers did not back down from the fight. Caleb's scowl deepened. In a matter of seconds, the four soldiers are either on their backs or their knees with the colonel looking down at them. The soldiers around them dropped their jaws to see their own colonel just singlehandedly stopped a fight.

"You five," Caleb looked at the four soldiers on the ground then to the captain, "Office. Now."

Without another word, Caleb left the scene to go back into his office, leaving the lingering coldness of his presence on the scene.

Caleb glowered at the five people present in his office.

"If I see you four in another fight-"

"Sir, he attacked-" One of the soldiers tried to defend himself.

"Do not interrupt me." Although his face looked calm, his voice sounded extremely threatening and the whole room felt like it had dropped several degrees. "I expect you four to be on your best behavior. I better not get any reports about you four. Do you understand?"

The soldiers quickly nodded their heads. They didn't know which was better, being yelled at by a superior or being disciplined by this colonel who looked like he would skin them all before murdering them.

"You're dismissed." The soldiers scrambled out the door. When the captain made an attempt to leave, Caleb called out, "You stay."

The captain gulped before standing straight before the colonel.

"The next time you decide to call me to solve this type of issue for you, I expect your badge on my desk promptly."

"Yes, sir."

"Get out."

The captain didn't need to be told twice as he left the office as soon as Caleb told him to leave. Caleb sighed and rubbed his temple. The workload had been ridiculous. As the time ticked on, the entire building slowly turned quiet. All the soldiers and officers had already left work. Caleb checked the time to see it had been nearly midnight. He sighed before heading out of his office to call it a day.

Caleb wasn't particularly excited to go back home. Whenever you weren't in Skyhaven, his house felt empty and lonely. However, today, the house seemed a bit more lively than usual. Several lamps were turned on and he heard a voice and movement inside one of the bedrooms.

"Ugh, I swear I brought some over!" Caleb immediately recognized that voice belonged to you.

He quickly shut the door before calling out to her, "MC?" He quickly stripped out of his uniform that his lover disliked so much.

Without missing a single beat, you ran out of your bedroom and hugged him, "Caleb! Welcome home!"

"I didn't know you were staying." He hugged you back, tightly. "I would've prepared dinner."

You gasped, "Ooo, that does sound good. It's okay, Caleb. I didn't even know I was getting a few days off. Captain Jenna told me to take the weekends off since there have been way too many people to call in for the shift this weekend. So I thought to spend my weekend with you!"

All the fatigue Caleb felt back in the office immediately left him. He felt anew and recharged. You leaned in closer and narrowed your eyes. It was hard to see, but you could see a faint dark circle under his eyes, it's hard to tell without getting very close.

"Caleb?" you frowned, "are you alright?"

Caleb raised an eyebrow, "Yes. Why?"

"Well," You gently caressed the skin under his eyes. "You look tired."

Caleb sighed, "When did you become this observant."

"If I'm not that observant then what kind of hunter would I be."

Caleb chuckled as you used a similar quote he had used before. "Alright, fine, fine. The paperwork was a handful, but don't worry. I'm fiiiiine."

You narrowed her eyes, slightly suspicious, "I don't believe you."

"What should I do to make you believe me?"

You beamed, "I have something in mind."

"I'm all ears."

"No explaining, just listen to my instructions."

"Yes, colonel." Caleb teased.

"Pipsqueak. When you said you had something in mind, this is not what I'm expecting." Caleb nervously chuckled.

You squeezed a bottle of shampoo onto your hand, "shush. Let me take care of you." You lathered the shampoo onto his hair and gently massaged his scalp. "You took care of me many times before, let me do it at least once." You poked his cheek, "Lay down, I can't reach you."

Caleb obediently did what you asked and lay his head back. "I never thought there would be a day where I get pampered instead of the one doing the pampering."

You chuckled, "Well, expect more pampering in the future. Close your eyes."

You inwardly chuckled when Caleb once again obediently did what you asked, like a cute little puppy. "Alright, I'm done with your hair. Finish washing yourself, and I'll wait for you outside."

Caleb smiled, "What else do you have in store for me?"

"You'll see," You said before closing the door.

It didn't take long for Caleb to finish washing. In fact, it wasn't even three minutes, and he was already done, already dressed in his pajamas.

"Caleb, what the fuck? I was just in there."

"Yes, and I'm out here now."

"In three minutes?"

Caleb looked at you in confusion. "Yes?"

"How?"

Caleb shrugged, "Sometimes things happen in the fleet, so I gotta shower quickly, or else my subordinates would see me doing drills naked."

You blinked, trying to process it before laughing at the idea of naked Caleb barking orders.

Caleb playfully narrowed his eyes, "I see your imagination is going wild."

You wiped my tears while gesturing him to sit down, "I'll dry your hair."

Caleb sat down and looked at you questionably. "I think you're trying to start something."

You grabbed the hair dryer and turned it on, "You're overthinking it." While drying his hair, you tried to fluff up his hair as much as possible, trying to give him a new hairstyle. The most ridiculous style you can ever think of.

"What are you doing?" Caleb asked, clearly knowing what your intentions are.

You giggled, "Nothing, just trying to make you fluffy."

"I'm not a dog." The way Caleb acted, he might as well be born in the year of the dog.

It didn't take long for his hair to dry. Sadly, his hair did not fluff up the way you wanted it to be. Guess his hair is just as stubborn as their owner.

You tossed the air dryer to the side and pushed Caleb toward you. "Lean on me, let me massage your shoulders." You pressed down on his shoulder, kneeling around his tense muscles. You can feel Caleb feeling relaxed because he's starting to put his entire weight on you. After several minutes, you feel like he's going to nod off, so you poke his cheek, "Let's do your face."

"What's wrong with my face?" Caleb sounded slightly sleepy.

You rolled your eyes, "Nothing, but it'll feel nice. I promise."

Caleb slowly stood up, "Sure sure. You're the boss."

You dragged Caleb into his bedroom, and made sure he was nice and comfortable under the blanket before putting on the face mask.

"You know, I remember when you forced me to wear face masks while we were in high school. You even used me as a guinea pig for your skincare and makeup."

"Do you not like them?"

"No, I like them."

"Good, now close your eyes. Perhaps you'll achieve what all women wanted: a glass skin."

"If I have that, I'd lose respect from all my subordinates."

"Good," You sat next to him. "Maybe you won't appear that scary under that uniform." You grabbed a book that he was reading and started to hum a tune.

The book Caleb is reading is a lot different than what you would read. It's all about the different models of a plane. Most of which you don't even understand.

"Caleb, what would your next career plan be if you didn't become a pilot?" Would he be an engineer instead? You waited for an answer but no response from Caleb. "Caleb?" You looked over at him to see him fast asleep. His eyes are closed and his breaths are even.

You smiled at his innocent sleeping face as you slowly peeled the mask from his face. "I wish I had your skin. One face mask and you look several years younger."

You quietly and slowly slid out of the bed to turn off all the lights before sliding back under the blanket with him. "Good night."

The first thing that stirred Caleb awake was the smell. The smell smelled... delicious. He can smell the egg, the butter, and the meat. Then he heard a tune, the same tune he heard last night before he passed out. He slowly blinked awake, allowing his eyes to adjust to the morning light.

He slowly left his bed and followed the smell and the music that led him toward the kitchen. He smiled as he watched you doing small dances as you placed the food onto the plate. He wrapped his arms around you and kissed your cheeks which made you jump.

"Caleb! You scared me!"

Caleb chucked, "Good morning, love."

"Good morning. Slept well?"

Caleb nodded. He slept very well last night. The first time where he didn't wake himself up from nightmares.

"I made breakfast. I also made your lunch, if you're interested. If not, I'll just eat it my-"

"Thank you, I'll take them all."

You smiled, "Want me to make dinner tonight?"

Caleb hummed, "Yes, please."

Caleb felt like he was living in paradise. No matter how much work he needed to do, as long as he know that you'll be the one welcoming him home, work doesn't sound as bad.

Boy, was he wrong. The moment he got into his office, he was ready to murder every single person in this building. Because the first damn thing that happened as soon as he went to work, an emergency happened. Because someone can't read a fucking manual, causing a domino effect which then made it into an emergency.

Dividers, headers, banners, and templates used on this post are from @uzmacchiato

[mapsthewanderer]

Caleb’s myth -

The Vermillion bird

AU: You are at the Vermillion bird’s court. Captive? (Shortish+. Fluffy, romantic, banter and a lil skin contact if u know what I mean jkjk just kissin. I rlyrly recommend the music)

Skin syntax

Caleb reclines with an easy grace, laughter simmering beneath his breath—a quiet, glowing ember rather than a sudden spark. His abs rise and fall beneath a broad belt rich with embroidery, sunset hues shimmering where the light catches.

"Hah—! That tickles," he breathes, voice laced with amusement, though he doesn’t shy away. His grin lingers, soft rather than wild, as he shifts just enough to tease, the silk of his robe fanning out beneath him like an unfurled scroll—inviting, yet carefully composed.

"Stay still," you murmur, barely above a whisper. "We both know it doesn’t tickle you."

The brush glides over his skin, a whisper of ink against warmth, sketching the fluttering language of fire and renewal—the dialect of the vermilion bird. The liquid gold flows in deliberate lines, catching the light, flickering like the playful gleam in his amber eyes.

They watch you, steady and patient, a quiet indulgence in the moment.

He leans back on his palms, legs crossed, open to your artistry, his expression amused yet tranquil. His lips move absently, shaping sounds without voice, as if tasting the syllables you write. Each stroke of your hand is deliberate, your focus so deep that your tongue peeks out in concentration, the rest of the world narrowing to the ink, the skin, the moment.

"Remind me again why you had to write this here?" Caleb asks, his voice warm, teasing, yet unhurried, as if savoring the sensation. His amusement is a slow tide, not disruptive but coaxing, letting you explore the canvas of his body without urgency.

"Du-hu," you tease, your voice lilting with mischief. "Because your back and arms are covered!"

Caleb smirks, tilting his head. "Mhm… and you just had to use me as your canvas? Not, say, paper—like a normal person?" His voice dips, playful, yet laced with something warmer.

You meet his gaze, unbothered. "Because I'm not a normal person."

With a slow, deliberate flick of your wrist, the brush feathers over his lips, leaving a trail of shimmering gold. His breath hitches—just for a second—before his smirk deepens, eyes dark with intrigue.

He grabs your wrist, his grip firm yet deliberate, eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that stills the air between you.

"You're right," he whispers, pulling you closer, his breath warm against your skin.

"You are..." he continues. His voice trails as he breathes you in, the moment stretching, charged and unspoken.

Caleb brushes a faint kiss against your lips—chaste, precious, a whisper of warmth. It lingers like a promise, stamped in golden ink, sealing itself into you.

Then—a single drop of ink slips from the brush, rolling down his chest in a slow, deliberate path. Both of you follow its descent, breath hitching in quiet tandem. When it finally vanishes against his skin, his gaze lifts to meet yours—amber burning, then shifting to violet, dark and endless.

The moment snaps.

Caleb surges forward, capturing your lips in a kiss that is nothing like the first—deep, unguarded, heat unfurling between you in slow, deliberate waves. It lingers, insistent and searching, until the space between you blurs and breath itself fades into nothing, swallowed by the intensity of his mouth pressed against yours.

His lips worship you, each movement tender yet consuming, as though he's savoring every second, every taste of you. "Y-you are... right," he mutters between heated breaths, his hands pulling you closer, wanting more of you, deeper. The fire ignites, spreading rapidly through your veins, setting your skin ablaze. The heat intensifies, flooding your body, each wave making you ache with the desperate need to be closer.

An undeniable urge to strip away the distance between you rises, driven by a burning desire to feel him entirely, to be consumed by the flames of his touch. As he pulls you over him, his voice trembles,

"You are…" he murmurs, voice hitching. His eyes search yours, violet and intent, as your foreheads touch. A slow exhale, then softer, steadier —

"Very special."

"Show me," you murmur back, your lips brushing against his as you pull back just enough to meet his eyes, "show me how special I am."

He lets out a quiet chuckle, his eyes darkening with amusement.

"I thought you'd never ask."

Writer’s note: So these two are basically just gonna make out and be covered in golden ink. Funny how my brain works sometimes. I hope you like it, Gavin 🫶🏻

[that-one-scoundrel]

Many thanks @drowsyapple for le tag!

Sleepy eyes are a charm on its own!! Go on and rock that natural sleepy look! ✨✨

I got mine from one of my favourite scenes in Star Wars and it's the scene where Princess Leia finally kissed Han Solo; the one where she called him a scoundrel before the kiss. I don't know why, but something in the way she said it clicked in me and, before yknow it, I adopted it.

I thought it would be so cool introducing yourself as Scoundrel. The moniker also works bcus my irl nickname is Drelle! (a cool bonus 👍👍)

tagging these wonderful people as well (no pressure as always :)) : @its-de @prisjean @icedoatlatte29 @ippi2un @rafayelbiter @gavin3469 and you! the one who's reading this, feel free :D

Tag game🎉

Tag your moots and ask them where they got the idea for their tumblr accounts name!

For my name it was a nickname I was giving back in middleschool! One of our teacher had a system where we worked with 'wifi' eachtime we talked in class we lost a bar of the "wifi" (was a weird joke and we never held count on that) All the kids usually joked if they needed 'wifi' , they would borrow mine if they wanted to talk more. (I was incredibly shy in middle school, I only talked to like 3 people at school;^;)

They called me Ms. Wifi because of that. I just thought it would be funny if I put 'miss' instead of 'ms' because of my terrible actual wifi connection I have at home lol.

That's my story! Now moots, only if you guys want to, tell us your story.

Tags-> @slipping-lately @firequeenofficial @noagskryf @twinklstarrrr @halfbakedspuds @polterwasteist @rokushi-san @mygedagtes +anyone that sees this and wants to do this as well

[mapsthewanderer]

Caleb’s myth -

The Vermillion bird

AU: You are at the Vermillion birds court. Captive?

(Shortish+. Romance, fluff, touchy and immersive. I hope)

Chasing Temptation

The sun spills golden light over the endless field, catching on the crimson silk of Caleb’s robes as he dashes ahead, laughter ringing through the air. His eyes shimmer with mischief as he holds the kite aloft, just out of reach.

"Caleb!" you call, chasing after him. "You giant bird-brained dummy! Give it back!"

He pivots smoothly, evading your grasp.

Caleb laughs. “Who knows more about flying, little sun? You, or me?” He lifts the kite higher, golden eyes glinting. “Just making sure it soars - properly”

“Oh yeah? Well, it would've flown just fi-"

One moment, you’re running, breathless with laughter, caught in his game. The next, the world tilts.

A sharp gasp, a blur of motion, and then—impact. Strong arms catch you as you tumble together, his warmth steady beneath you. His robe unfurls mid-fall, crimson and gold billowing like a banner caught in the wind, before settling around you both in silken folds.

Caleb grins, eyes glinting with mischief as the kite hovers effortlessly above you both, defying gravity with his unseen touch. Its tail flutters in the wind, dipping low, tracing phantom patterns just above where you lay tangled together.

“Well, well,” he teases , breathless but utterly amused. “Didn’t think you’d be falling for me so literally.”

His fingers tighten just slightly at your waist, his voice dipping—playful, yet edged with something else. “Should I catch you again, just to be sure?”

His gaze roams your face before drifting lower, his touch following. Fingers brush along your ribs—soft, deliberate—as he shifts, guiding you effortlessly to his side.

The world tilts with the motion, the warmth of his body drawing you in until you’re resting against him, the silk of his robe sprawling beneath you like gilded wings.

One arm tightens around you, holding you close, while the other reaches up, fingertips threading through your hair as he plucks a stray tuft of grass—his touch lingering, careful, as if savoring the moment.

He twirls the grass between his fingers, lips curling into a smirk. “Trying to grow a meadow up here, little sun? Bold choice.”

You huff, puffing your cheeks as you swat at his hand. “Oh, please! If anyone’s sprouting a whole garden, it’s you.”

Grinning, you reach for his hair, fingers aiming for the dark strands. “Hold still, let me check—maybe you’ve got a whole tree growing in there.”

Before your fingers can reach, his hand catches yours—firm, lingering. His golden eyes burn, smoldering embers searching yours, not with mischief, but with something deeper, something aching. A silent pull, a quiet prayer, as if he is waiting—hoping—for you to reach for him just once more. And you do—your fingers brushing into his ash-brown hair, tangling softly.

Your breath falters. The laughter that once lit his face softens, folding into something bittersweet—something familiar, something unknown. A joy laced with sorrow, as if caught between memory and desire.

Then, as if the very light bends to him, his golden eyes dissolve into a violet so deep, so endless, galaxies stir within them—brushed with the faintest whisper of pink. Ethereal. Otherworldly. A sight slipping between dream and reality, too fleeting to grasp, too mesmerizing to look away from.

Your breath stumbles, the words barely forming as you stare into the shifting hues. "Hey, Caleb… your eyes—"

Caleb hushes you softly, his eyes falling shut as if shielding something unspoken. Gently, he takes your hand, guiding it to his lips.

His breath trembles against your skin, warm and unsteady, his lips brushing over your fingers in a touch so delicate it nearly aches. His smile lingers—yearning, bittersweet—as if caught between restraint and desire, a promise and something far more consuming.

Caleb presses one final, lingering kiss to your ring finger—wetter, deeper, almost reverent. A breath shudders through him, the edges of his lips grazing your skin as if reluctant to part.

Then, his eyes flick open—no longer galaxies, but burning embers once more.

He rises smoothly, still holding your hands, his grip firm yet lingering. With a playful tug, he pulls you to your feet, his smirk unwavering.

“Come on,” he teases, his eyes alight with mischief and something warmer—joy, excitement, the thrill of another excuse to spoil you.

“Can’t have my little sun all messy, can I? Let’s get you cleaned up.” His fingers squeeze yours—just for a moment. “I’ll take you to my secret spot. Exclusive access,” he adds with a wink. “A bath fit for someone special.”

You follow without a word, the kite trailing behind like a silent witness.

Because you've seen those eyes before.

Writer’s note: I’m finally satisfied with the setting. We needed to know the purple eyes. Now they can start getting more touchy feely. Brb touch grass before writing steamier stuff

[mapsthewanderer]

Maps headcanons -

🧡 Caleb and period cramps fluff

Details: 600 words. Feel good food. Fluff. Tender, wonderful, caring, loving Caleb during that time of month. It actually fits if you just want a lil pampering from our boy too. Get you a man who can do both *cries* this is for you @gavin3469

You barely make it through the door before exhaustion weighs you down. The day had been long, and your body felt like it was fighting against you, every step home a battle you barely won. You had considered stopping by the store, picking up something to comfort yourself, but the thought of carrying even the lightest of bags felt impossible. You just wanted to collapse, to sink into something warm and safe and let the world fade away for a while.

You sigh as you unlock it, expecting nothing more than the quiet stillness of your apartment. But the moment you step inside, warmth greets you like an embrace. The air smells of apples and vanilla, and the soft flicker of candlelight casts golden glows against the walls. There’s something else too—something that smells like summer, fresh and inviting.

“Hello?” you call out weakly, toeing off your shoes.

No answer.

Your brows knit together as you shrug off your coat, your tired brain sluggishly trying to recall whether you had left any candles burning this morning. But then you see him.

Caleb stands in the kitchen, completely oblivious to your arrival, airpods in as he chops vegetables with effortless precision. His movements are fluid, a rhythm all his own, the steady thunk of the knife against the cutting board matching the beat of whatever music he’s lost in. He sways as he works, shifting his weight, rolling his shoulders in time with the sound only he can hear. It’s not forced, not even intentional—just an unconscious, easy sort of grace.

But that isn’t what takes your breath away.

Across the living room, near the couch, sits an enormous cube of heaven—a down duvet, the kind that screams luxury, thick and impossibly soft. A massive ribbon is tied around it, wrapped so perfectly it looks like a gift for a special occasion—something you’d dreamed of unwrapping on your birthday, carefully chosen just for you—rather than just Caleb being Caleb. The sight of it—of the effort, the quiet, knowing care behind it—makes something ache deep in your chest.

Caleb’s head lifts, eyes widening briefly in surprise, and then, in an instant, he sets the knife aside and crosses the room with the kind of intent that makes your heart stutter. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t ask—just gathers you into his arms, pulling you close, holding you like he’s been waiting for this moment all day. His warmth envelops you, deep and unwavering, the kind that seeps into your bones, making the exhaustion, the ache, the weight of the entire day fade into nothing.

The whole world disappears—there is only this, only him. His chest rises and falls beneath your cheek as he exhales, his lips pressing softly to your hair, lingering there as if he’s just as relieved to have you home as you are to be here. His hand slides down your shoulder, fingers squeezing lightly, grounding you in a way that feels like safety, like home.

“How has your day been, dear?” he murmurs, voice low and filled with quiet affection. “I’m so happy to see you.”

The words break something loose in you, and before you can stop yourself, your eyes well up. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, the pain that’s been gnawing at you all day, or maybe it’s just him—the thoughtfulness, the way he always seems to know exactly what you need before you do. His hands find your cheeks, thumbs brushing away tears before they can fall, and he presses the softest kiss to your forehead.

“Hey, hey,” he soothes, voice barely above a whisper. “I got you. You don’t have to do anything tonight. Just let me take care of you.”

You exhale shakily, leaning into his touch, grounding yourself in the quiet strength of him.

Then, as if reading your mind, he grins and tilts his head toward the couch. “Wanna try out your new duvet? Bet you won’t wanna leave it once you do.”

A laugh bubbles up despite yourself, and for the first time all day, the heaviness in your chest lifts just a little.

You nod, unable to find words, and Caleb grins before pressing a soft kiss to your temple. He takes your hand and leads you toward the couch—toward warmth, comfort, and the unwavering truth that, in this moment, you are the only thing in the world that matters.

——————————————————————————

[mapsthewanderer]

The Maze

Synopsis: In a future where war and technology have blurred the line between man and machine, Caleb was resurrected—not as who he was, but as who he was programmed to be. With only 3% of his original self left intact, the latest reboot of his chip has reshaped his logic, his purpose, and his understanding of his emotions towards you.

Bound by his own design, he has built you the Maze—a flawless, shifting sanctuary meant to protect the one person he refuses to lose. But protection and captivity are two sides of the same coin, and inside the Maze, freedom is just another unsolvable puzzle.

Will you escape, or will Stockholm Syndrome take hold before that day?

Details: 2600ish words. Some kind of spin off AU, but corresponds with in-game canons. Obsessive Caleb. Yandere Caleb. Controlling Caleb. Colonel Caleb. Crazy hot Caleb. 18+ due to psychological thriller/drama/angst galore (and a prelude for p0rn with plot, I’m just calling it now tbh lol). You are warned.

Tags: @gavin3469 @mcdepressed290

Chapters: chapter two, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight (final chapter)

Disobedience | Chapter one

The Maze, you

The sheets beneath your fingertips are soft, smooth against your skin—yet the coolness of the night still lingers, a stark contrast to the heat of your own body.

For a moment, you just lie there, still. Listening.

The room hums with a faint, steady silence—too perfect, too controlled. There’s no creak of floorboards, no shifting of walls, only the barely-there whisper of circulated air filtering through vents.

A breath. A heartbeat.

Then—

“Morning, sunshine.”

The sound curls through the space, warm, teasing, familiar.

You don’t flinch.

Your hands, hidden beneath your pillow, run over the rough scratches in the headboard.

Ten days.

Ten days in Caleb’s Maze.

Ten days of carefully mapping the shifting corridors, learning the rhythm of the walls.

Ten days of waiting for a single mistake.

You let your thumb press against the newest line, the wood rough beneath your nail. The only thing here that feels imperfect.

Ten lines. Today makes ten.

Your fingers move carefully, hidden beneath your pillow, tracing over the rough scratches in the headboard. The grooves are uneven, worn from repetition.

A habit now. A ritual.

Another inhale. Another second where you are just waking up.

Then, deliberately slow, you stretch—arms reaching high, toes curling, your spine arching briefly before you relax again, exhaling softly. You force yourself to move naturally. To pretend.

“Did you sleep well, Pips?”

His voice is smooth, effortless, the same playful lilt it’s always had. The intercom crackles faintly at the edges, a reminder that he isn’t here.

You push the sheets off, swallowing down the tightness in your throat.

“I’ve had worse,” you murmur.

A low chuckle hums through the room. Soft, unbothered.

“That’s not an answer.”

You don’t give him one.

Instead, you slide out of bed, bare feet meeting cool marble flooring, and head toward the kitchen. It’s pristine, the kind of luxury that feels staged, artificial. Polished marble, deep walnut cabinets, light spilling through windows that show a perfect sky that isn’t real.

You reach for a glass from the overhead rack—thin, cool, smooth against your fingers—before pouring yourself orange juice.

It’s cold when you drink, tangy with just the right bite of citrus.

“The apple juice is fresher.”

You pause mid-drink.

His voice is still warm, too conversational for someone keeping you captive.

“But,” Caleb adds smoothly, “you’re free to choose whatever you please.”

Your jaw tightens. You set the glass down too hard.

“Oh, how generous.”

Silence stretches for a moment, and you swear you hear the faintest flicker of static in the speakers. Like he was about to say something else.

Then—nothing.

You don’t wait for him to continue.

You turn on your heel, leaving the kitchen, heading toward the bathroom.

——————————————————————————

The mirror doesn’t lie.

You brush your teeth, staring at your reflection. Messy hair, sharper eyes. With a slow inhale, you smooth down the wrinkled fabric of your pajamas, then splash cool water onto your face, letting the droplets slide down your jaw. You straighten, gripping the sink for a moment before exhaling.

You look fine. Healthy.

And yet, something invisible coils inside you as you step out of the bathroom. The plush carpet yields softly beneath your bare feet, a stark contrast to the cold, sterile reality of the Maze beyond this space.

The walk-in wardrobe is spacious, curated to perfection, a collection of clothes you never asked for but were chosen with meticulous care. Your fingers trail along the fabrics, skimming over silken dresses, impossibly soft loungewear, intricate embroidery.

Not clothes meant for movement.

Not clothes meant for running.

But today, you dress for yourself.

Your hands move with quiet certainty. A fitted, dark long-sleeve shirt, breathable and weightless against your skin. Black cargo pants with deep pockets, light enough for speed, flexible enough to run.

You don’t rush as you pull the shirt over your head, as you fasten the buttons on your pants.

You don’t care if he’s watching.

Let him.

You glance at your wrist, at the smooth, metallic weight of the watch he gave you—shaped like an apple, polished to perfection. A taunt. A joke only he found amusing. You’d scoffed when he fastened it around your wrist on the first day, smirking like he was doing you a favor. As if time mattered in a place like this. As if knowing the hour would change the fact that every second still belonged to him.

And yet, it had given you something.

You’d started noticing the patterns. The way his voice filtered through the speakers more often at certain times, his presence reduced to an unseen observer rather than the man himself. A shift in routine, a window of opportunity. If he wasn’t here in person, then maybe—just maybe—it was the best time to run.

Your best chance.

You step into the halls.

——————————————————————————

The Fleet, Administrative wing, Caleb

The Maze breathes.

Not in the way a person does—not with lungs or with a heartbeat—but with the constant, seamless shifts of its corridors, the silent recalibration of its pathways, the ever-adapting nature of its design.

It moves because it is meant to.

Because he made it so.

His design.

From his office aboard The Fleet headquarters, Caleb watches.

Multiple screens flicker in front of him, displaying live feeds from the Maze’s surveillance systems. Some show stark, metallic corridors bathed in cold fluorescent light, their silence almost oppressive. Others reveal lush, curated spaces—gardens where bioluminescent flowers bloom in a soft, otherworldly glow, their petals unfurling like whispers against the artificial breeze.

Waterfalls cascade down smooth stone walls, their shimmering descent captured in crisp, high-definition clarity. Libraries sleek and modern, with floor-to-ceiling glass, dark wood shelves lined with both rare books and glowing data slates, and plush leather seating bathed in soft, golden light—a seamless blend of luxury and knowledge.

Yet, despite the breathtaking variety before him, his attention is drawn to one screen in particular. Something about it—perhaps the flicker of movement, the subtle shift in shadow—demands his focus.

You.

You stand before the open wardrobe, fingers skimming over the array of fabrics, hesitating.

Something twists in his chest.

It happens fast, instinctive—like a flicker of old wiring trying to reroute itself. Something he shouldn’t feel.

But he does.

His violet eyes trace every detail as you shift through the clothing options. There’s an abundance of choices—elegant silks, soft cottons, layers meant for comfort rather than necessity.

And yet, when your fingers pause, it’s on something practical.

Dark, fitted. Movable.

A slow, amused sound escapes him—“tsk, tsk, tsk.”

He already knows.

Even before you strip off your nightwear and begin sliding into a long-sleeve shirt, breathable and light, he knows.

You’re planning to run.

Again.

His gaze lingers for a second too long as you fasten the buttons on your cargo pants, checking their fit, testing their flexibility. It’s almost methodical, the way you move—not just dressing, but preparing. A muscle feathers in his cheek, and without thinking, his teeth catch his lower lip, a small, unconscious bite—barely there, barely a reaction, but enough. A fleeting lapse in control before he smooths it away, blinking once, recalibrating.

Caleb exhales through his nose, fingers loosely tapping against the polished surface of his desk. The gesture is unconscious, almost idle, but there’s an undercurrent of something he can’t quite name.

Not frustration. Not even disappointment.

Something closer to sadness.

For a moment—just a moment—he allows himself the thought:

You don’t trust him.

Even after ten days in the Maze, after the security, the warmth, the meals he ensures are exactly as you like them—you still choose to run.

That small, dying fraction of himself—the part that still feels, still remembers, still wants—aches.

Then, just as quickly, he shuts it down.

His violet gaze hardens, refocusing his thoughts, and with a measured glance toward the digital clock in the corner of his screen, he makes a decision.

“Early lunch then.” The words are low, absentminded, spoken only to himself.

He stands, rolling his sleeves down, adjusting the crisp lines of his uniform. His movements are fluid, practiced—not rushed, not tense.

This isn’t unexpected.

You always were predictable in your defiance. And while he should be sitting through another briefing on Fleet logistics, securing operations for Skyhaven’s next expansion project, this takes priority.

You take priority.

Without another glance at the monitors, Caleb steps away from his desk, his boots echoing lightly against the pristine floors of his office.

His command to The Fleet’s automated systems is brief, quiet, and final.

“Cancel my schedule for the next hour.”

——————————————————————————

The Maze, you

The air is fresh, sterile. The Maze is designed to feel real, but it isn’t.

Some corridors have grass growing in patches, soft beneath your steps. Others are lined with polished stone, textured enough to feel almost natural. Somewhere, hidden beyond the walls, you hear the soft, rhythmic hum of unseen machines. The constant, inaudible shifts of the Maze adjusting itself.

Every sound. Every change.

Caleb built this place beautifully.

But a golden cage is still a cage.

You let your fingers graze the walls, memorizing the faintest seams. The air is still, too quiet. You keep walking, turning a corner—

Then—

A door stays open a second too long.

Your breath catches.

You move. Fast, silent, sharp.

Each step is calculated, your feet landing light against the ground as you slip through the threshold before it can close.

The first hallway is clear.

Your pulse spikes, adrenaline flooding your veins.

A second hallway—open.

You keep going.

Your heart pounds.

A third hallway. Open. Your pulse spikes, adrenaline burning hot in your veins.

You don’t stop. You don’t think. You move.

And then—

A shadow. A shift in the air.

Arms wrap around your waist.

A solid, crushing force, an unyielding grip stronger than your own body. Your breath leaves you in a sharp exhale, and you thrash immediately. Fingers claw at his forearm, at the muscle in his wrist, nails digging into flesh—but he doesn’t even flinch.

“You know better than this, Pips.” Caleb’s voice is too steady. Too calm.

The fight in you explodes.

You shove back, twisting, slamming your elbow into his ribs. It’s a clean hit, right where you aimed—

And he doesn’t even move.

“Really?” Caleb exhales, the sound a mix of amusement and something dangerously close to indulgence.

You fight. He doesn’t flinch.

In a single motion, he lifts you. Effortless. Controlled. Like this was always how it would end.

Your breath stutters as the world tilts.

His hold is secure, strong, completely unshaken. His body is warm against your back, his presence a wall you can’t break through.

“I’m disappointed,” Caleb murmurs. “I thought we were past this phase.”

You twist again, wild, desperate—he tightens his hold.

It isn’t painful. It’s just inescapable.

“Still fighting me, huh?” A sigh, low, almost indulgent.

Then—he turns.

And carries you back. Deeper into the maze.

——————————————————————————

The door hisses shut behind you, locking with an unmistakable click.

The room is warm. Comfortable. Familiar. Which only makes you hate it more. Everything here is chosen for you. The plush seating, the softest blankets, the bookshelves filled with titles you’ve mentioned in passing. There’s even a record player in the corner, already humming out a low, nostalgic tune.

Caleb has built you a paradise.

And then he’s tied you to the chair.

The contrast is almost comical.

A high-backed, cushioned armchair, angled just slightly toward the crackling fireplace. The restraints—thin, smooth straps, nothing rough or cruel—keep your wrists and ankles in place.

And once again it’s not painful. Just inescapable…

“You know,” Caleb says conversationally, adjusting the straps like he’s tucking you in for the night, “this wouldn’t be necessary if you behaved.”

You don’t answer.

Instead, you glare at the bookshelf across from you, focusing on the hardcover spines of your favorite novels rather than the man currently fastening you into your luxury prison.

“Pips, don’t be like that.”

The nickname makes you grit your teeth.

Caleb straightens, stepping back, hands loosely resting on his hips as he surveys his work. His violet eyes flick over the restraints, your tensed arms, your jaw clenched in irritation.

Then—a smirk.

“Comfy?”

Your glare could burn through steel.

“Oh, come on,” he sighs, gesturing vaguely around the room. “I could’ve put you somewhere far less accommodating.”

Your eyes flicker around the room, unwillingly cataloging every sickeningly perfect detail.

The softest blankets in the universe draped over the nearby couch. A table of fresh fruit, chocolates, and a steaming cup of tea—your favorite blend. A window overlooking a perfect sunset, artificial but beautiful.

And worst of all—the armchair you’re currently restrained to? It reclines.

Your fingers twitch.

“See?” Caleb tilts his head, reading your expression effortlessly. “I’m not unreasonable.”

You huff through your nose, looking away.

Caleb leans down, hands bracing the armrests, his breath a whisper of warmth against your skin. Violet eyes—too sharp, too knowing—trace your features, his stare slow, deliberate, as if committing every defiant line to memory.

“I don’t like doing this to you, Pip-squeak.” His voice is softer now. Too close. Too careful.

His gloved fingers glide over your cheek, a slow, feather-light drag of cool leather against your too-warm skin. It shouldn’t leave an impression, but it does—a whisper of control, deliberate, inescapable.

Then, he moves—not back, but forward.

He leans in, slow, deliberate, until his breath ghosts against your lips, warm and steady, the space between you shrinking into nothing.

And then, just there, against your mouth—

“But you have to stop trying to leave me.”

The words are soft, almost gentle—but there’s nothing soft about the way they settle into your bones. A command, a fact, absolute.

He’s already gone.

Straightened. Moved away, as if he hadn’t just stolen the air from your lungs, as if he hadn’t just set your pulse stumbling. Like he’s in control.

Because, of course—he is.

Caleb he tilts his head slightly, gaze flickering down as he taps a single finger against the watch on your wrist—light, teasing, as if this is just another game.

“Should we say two hours of relaxation?” His voice is smooth, almost coy. Then, with a smirk, he leans in just slightly, like he’s sharing some playful little secret. “Then we can go play basketball later.”

And just like that, he turns on his heel, stepping away, unbothered, already moving on—as if he hadn’t just tied you down, as if he hadn’t just reminded you exactly where you belong.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, Caleb

Caleb stands just outside the room, his back to the door, his gloved fingers twitching at his sides. His breath escapes too sharp, too uneven, something off-rhythm about it.

He should be proud. He handled the situation with perfect efficiency.

You fought. He won.

And yet—his pulse is off. The air in the corridor feels heavier than it should.

He presses his fingers to his temple. Once. Twice.

Like he’s trying to force something back into place.

Steps sharp, too controlled.

He moves down the corridor, into the main halls of the Maze, the exit looming ahead.

Then, as if remembering something only he can hear, Caleb pulls a small device from his belt—sleek, no larger than his palm, its surface smooth and seamless.

His grip tightens around it.

It’s unnecessary.

You’ve made your choices. He’s made his.

And yet—his thumb presses down.

A soft, nearly imperceptible beep registers in his earpiece. Inside the locked room, the restraints will loosen. You won’t be free to leave. But you’ll be free to move.

His shoulders drop by a fraction of an inch, just enough that someone trained in reading body language might notice.

But no one is watching.

Caleb’s fingers press down on a door panel.

The door unlocks.

And Caleb steps through.

Behind him, the Maze remains unchanged, unmoving, silent. But no matter how far he walks, no matter how many doors close between you—

He will return to you.

He always does.

Because you are still inside.

And Caleb has never been able to stay away from you for long.

Not before.

Not now.

Not ever.

——————————————————————————

Chapter two

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: So I had this idea and I love crazy delulu Caleb. I kinda like it? It’s something? It has potential, I think? I’m playing around with writing styles and this is the product. I feel like anything could happen in this maze lol. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

[that-one-scoundrel]

@gavin3469 bro is your boy lolol

[Comic] Cherry Knot

Original artist: 喵哦哦哦哦哦

Source ll Permission ll Sub-masterlist

🍒 Please do not repost 🍒

[mapsthewanderer]

Caffeine, chemistry and Caleb V

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: 2000ish words. Non-MC!Reader as the law student. Expect flirting, a twist on jealousy, and—as always—plenty of banter and all those good vibes with the newbiedoobie. God, this has officially crossed the line into romcom territory

Parts: intial one shot, part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 6, part 7, part 8, part 9

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

Getaway car | Pt. 5

It’s early.

Too early for your brain to be doing anything beyond standing upright and not missing the bus.

You’re at the stop, earbuds in, clutching your travel mug like it’s life support, the morning chill threading its way through your jacket. Class isn’t for another hour, but study hall opens early, and you’ve convinced yourself that being proactive will keep you from spiraling.

Because you’re supposed to be thinking about contract clauses and international trade standards. Instead, your brain keeps looping back to apples. To charms. To the quiet ache of “when u come back” etched into metal and meaning.

You shake it off. Law first. Feelings… later. Probably. Maybe.

But then.

The scent hits first—aggressively expensive cologne that suggests he either bathed in it or lost a bet at Sephora.

“Morning,” Harv says, dropping in beside you like the sidewalk personally invited him.

Harv’s tall, clean-cut in that pre-law catalog kind of way—messenger bag slung across his chest, coat perfectly tailored, nut-brown hair slicked back like he definitely uses product and probably reads his textbooks for fun. Charming. The kind of handsome that gets approving glances from professors and moms.

You blink. “Hey, Harv.”

With a quick adjustment of his strap, he flashes an easy smile. “Didn’t think I’d catch you this early. Headed to campus?”

“Yeah. Trying to pretend I’m someone with discipline and structure.”

Harv laughs. “Faking it till finals, huh?”

“Something like that.”

The two of you get off the bus together and start walking from the campus stop toward the law building—light conversation, easy pace. The sidewalks are still damp, the morning quiet in that soft, almost-forgiving kind of way.

Harv says something about a practice quiz later this week, and you nod along, half-listening, half-focused on trying to stay awake.

It’s normal. Predictable.

Fine.

Until it isn’t.

Because there—up ahead—someone rounds the corner.

Caleb.

AirPods in, white hoodie layered under his black leather jacket, one strap of his backpack slung over his shoulder, hands shoved in his pockets. That familiar walk—loose, confident, like he always knows exactly where he’s going… and that you’ll be watching him get there.

And you spot him before he spots you.

But the second he looks up, his steps slow—just a little.

His eyes land on you.

Then Harv.

Then back to you.

He pulls one earbud loose. “Didn’t know you were a morning person.”

You smile, adjusting your bag. “I contain multitudes.”

Caleb’s gaze flicks to Harv again, sharp but brief. “Heading to campus?”

The strap of his backpack shifts as he hikes it higher on his shoulder, like he’s about to keep walking—but then he pauses. Looks at you again. Lingers.

You wrap your hands around your travel mug, suddenly very aware of how lukewarm it’s gotten.

And then, smoothly—like it’s a reflex—he steps closer and leans in.

“Is that travel mug betrayal I see?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He plucks the mug right from your hands with an exaggerated frown, turning it in his palm like he’s inspecting evidence.

“You brought other tea onto my turf,” he says, feigning deep offense.

Caleb gives the string of your sad little store-bought tea bag a flick, the label fluttering like it’s personally offended him. “I’m wounded, Golden Girl.”

“I didn’t know I signed an exclusivity contract,” you say, trying to keep a straight face as you reach out to take the mug back.

Just a fraction closer now, Caleb leans in—fingers brushing a playful tug at your braid as he murmurs, “You didn’t read the fine print?”

You open your mouth—absolutely no thoughts, just spiraling—but Harv laughs lightly beside you, missing the edge.

“She’s got options,” he says, nudging your arm before glancing at Caleb. Then, without missing a beat, he snatches the mug right out of Caleb’s hands. “I’ve seen you at the coffee shop, right? Can’t expect her to stick to just one supplier forever.”

Caleb looks down at his now-empty hand, then back up—smile still there, but it’s taken on a razor-thin edge.

“Oh, I’m not worried,” Caleb says, plucking the mug from Harv’s hand. He hands it back to you, casual as ever, like it weighs nothing. “I’ve got the cookies.”

You squint. “The what?”

“The bribes,” Caleb replies. “You remember. Cinnamon chip? Still undefeated.”

You’re about to make a snarky reply when Harv chuckles again, looking between the two of you.

“Man baking for someone? That’s dangerously close to being whipped.”

The air shifts.

Caleb’s smile freezes. Not dramatically. Just enough for you to notice. “Oh, right,” he says smoothly, voice cool and even. “Because effort is embarrassing.”

Harv blinks. “Didn’t mean anything by it.”

Caleb shrugs, but it’s sharp. “Of course not.”

Harv shifts beside you, clearly picking up on the tension but choosing confidence over retreat. “Well,” he says with a light laugh, “this got a little intense for a sidewalk meetup.”

Caleb doesn’t respond—just watches him, unreadable.

But Harv presses on. “Let’s start over, hm? I’m Harv,” he adds, stretching out a hand like it’s a peace offering. “From class. Future litigator. Occasional morning person.”

Caleb looks at the hand. Doesn’t take it.

Instead, his eyes lift to yours again—no teasing now, no flirt.

Just something quiet. Real.

And then Caleb clicks his tongue, almost like he’s made a decision.

“You deserve better tea,” Caleb says softly. “I’ll see you later, Golden Girl.”

Then he walks away.

You watch his back retreat into the morning light, one shoulder rolling as he pockets his hands—like your body hasn’t caught up to what your heart just did.

Then Harv—oblivious, unfortunately—pipes up:

“So, uh…” He nods toward Caleb’s retreating form. “Is that your boyfriend, or just your very intense barista-slash-personal baker?”

You blink. The answer is so obviously neither, but your brain short-circuits under this kind pressure.

So you do what you do best:

Lie.

“Oh, I don’t know,” you say lightly, offering a shrug instead of a full answer. “Maybe he’s just having a weird morning.”

It’s just a stupid joke. A reflex. A weak shield. A small lie.

But Caleb stops.

Way down the block, already near the café entrance, he turns—just slightly—shoulders tight.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just glances back.

And you know he heard.

Harv keeps walking, launching into something about a mock trial and obligation like nothing happened.

But you feel it.

Still.

Behind your ribs.

The look he gave you.

The one that said: “Really?”

Your travel mug suddenly feels heavy in your hands. And for the rest of the walk, your tea tastes like regret.

——————————————————————————

Midday hits, and you’re still off.

You’ve been rereading the same paragraph of your contract law notes for ten minutes—something about standards and WTO frameworks that Professor Litt delivered like a dramatic monologue—and your tea still tastes like guilt. So you do the only thing that makes sense:

You text the newbie.

You: okay. so. caleb accused me of travel mug betrayal this morning. AND flirted. AND walked off like i ran him over with a civic… harv (guy from school) made a whipped joke and caleb left like… dramatically left

The typing bubble pops up instantly.

newbie: okay. first of all. i KNEW he was acting weird!! he’s been reorganizing the bakery shelf in alphabetical order … alphabetically… like a stressed librarian with biceps

You snort. Your heart still isn’t steady, but at least you’ve got the newbie to spiral with—by rapid-fire texting them like it’s a group project.

Until your phone starts ringing.

The newbie. Calling you.

They never call.

You don’t even think—you grab your phone, shoot a whispered “sorry!” toward Professor Litt, and duck out of the lecture hall like it’s on fire.

And you hit answer mid-stride.

“Everything okay—?”

But it’s not the newbie’s voice on the line.

“Hey,” Caleb says.

You freeze.

Outside. Hallway. Cold air. NOW.

“Uh. Hi?”

A pause.

“I didn’t mean to make things weird this morning,” he says, voice low. “But, uh… I have to ask.”

You lean against the wall, trying not to slide down it.

“Ask what?”

“That guy,” he says. “The one you were with. Harvey or Harvest or… something dumb.”

“Harv,” you correct automatically, then regret it immediately.

Caleb doesn’t laugh.

Another pause.

“I just… is that a thing?”

The silence stretches between you like a closing argument waiting for a verdict. But before your brain can spiral any further, your pre-lawyer instincts kick in.

“Wait,” you say, narrowing your eyes even though he can’t see it. “Why are you calling me from the newbie’s phone? Did you steal it?”

There’s a short laugh—low and slightly smug.

“Saw them texting you. Don’t worry, tho. I asked nicely.”

“So theft,” you say. “With a smile. Classic barista distraction tactic.”

“I prefer strategic borrowing,” he replies. “And technically, they handed it over. Under mild protest.”

“TELL HER I SAID YOU’RE A MENACE—” you hear the newbie yelling in the background.

Pinching the bridge of your nose, you sigh. “Okay, so you hijacked the phone. For what, exactly?”

Caleb’s voice dips again, back to that careful, unreadable quiet.

“I had to ask,” he says. “About Harv.”

You pause.

Then your voice sharpens.

“Oh, you get to ask now?”

He goes quiet.

“Because last I checked,” you continue, heat creeping into your voice, “you never answered my question. About the charm. The necklace. The thing you wear every damn day. But I’m supposed to explain a guy who walked me to class?”

Another pause. Then—

“Well,” Caleb says dryly, “my necklace isn’t a six-foot-tall law student with cheekbones and a dick.”

You blink. Stare at a vending machine like it’s responsible for this conversation.

“That’s your defense?” you deadpan.

“I’m just saying,” he mutters. “He looked like a threat.”

“To what?”

“To… the chaos balance we’ve got going.”

You press a hand to your forehead. “Caleb.”

He sighs. “I know.”

And just like that—he sounds softer again.

Like he gets it.

Like he knows he messed up.

Like he’s been spiraling too.

“I just didn’t like seeing you with him,” he says quietly. “Okay?”

You press your back to the wall, head tipped up toward the ceiling like you’re negotiating with the fluorescent lights.

“Caleb,” you murmur, “I can’t promise you anything.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “I know.”

“All we’ve got right now is…” You trail off, trying to find something solid in the emotional soup of your life. “Vibes. Mildly reckless flirting. And maybe a new latte order with zero apple juice involved.”

There’s a beat.

Then—

“I have to give up the juice for you?” he teases, voice low and warm.

“Let’s not get sentimental about it,” you say. “It was a weird drink.”

On the other end, his laugh curls through the line—quiet, wrecking, unfairly good.

“I’m off in like ten minutes,” he says casually. “Was supposed to have… a… a date.”

Your stomach does a little tight twist. “Oh.”

“But…” his voice lowers again, almost sheepish, “I could be around. You know. If you stopped by.”

A pause.

“For the flirting. And the… non-apple-juice latte.”

You exhale slowly, a smile pulling at your mouth despite every warning your brain is flashing.

“I’ll see what I can do,” you say.

Which is law student code for:

I’ll be there.

And I might even stay.

You hang up.

And you swear under your breath.

What.

The.

Hell.

Cheeks burning as you slide down the wall, spine giving out like your body’s just as overwhelmed as your brain.

The tile is cold against your back, Professor Litt’s voice still echoing faintly through the door about GATS and international trade agreements, but it barely registers. You take a breath. Then another. Then—out of nowhere—you laugh. Quiet, disbelieving.

Because after all that? You still don’t even have Caleb’s number.

Eventually, you stand. Wipe your palms on your pants. Pull your expression back into something resembling composure.

Then you open the door and slip back into the lecture hall like nothing happened—like you didn’t just experience a full emotional mistrial in the hallway over a boy who smells like cinnamon and terrible decisions.

You slide into your seat. Professor Litt doesn’t even glance up as he drones on about WTO dispute settlements. And you do what any sane, responsible law student would do.

Pretend your heart isn’t still beating just a little too loud.

Your phone is still in your hand when the buzz comes through.

newbie: caleb is literally humming.

newbie: he just sang a taylor swift song to the steam wand. in falsetto. i don’t know if he’s okay. should i call a priest or just let him finish

You slam your forehead lightly against your laptop case.

From the front of the room, Professor Litt doesn’t even look up from his notes. “Careful with the dramatics,” he says, dry as ever. “Some of us are still pretending this material matters.”

A few students snort quietly. You sit up fast, mutter a half-hearted apology, and open your notes again.

Your phone buzzes. Again.

Time to spiral discreetly.

newbie: he’s got the soft apron fold today. you know the one. you’re doomed

You stare at the screen, cheeks still so warm, and text back with the last shred of dignity you have:

you: shut up i hate everything. i’ll be there in 20. tell the espresso machine to brace itself

Then you slide your phone into your pocket.

… And try very hard not to smile like an idiot the rest of the class.

——————————————————————————

Part 6

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: Okey so confession time: This whole AU is basically built around one very specific arc that’s been itching my brain like a mosquito bite I refuse to stop scratching. I’ll get to it eventually, promise. TS’s Getaway Car is basically the gospel of Caleb’s brain until a certain point… and then—heh—there’s another song that’s like the final boss of inspiration for his arc. That one? That one comes later. And the law student? She might have picked the wrong barista to flirt with. I’ll shut up now lol.

You absolutely lovely, amazing people commenting, reblogging with the funniest tags (@blessdunrest, you crack me up every time), and liking the silly things I write. I appreciate you so much. Truly. You make sharing this chaos feel extra special. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

[mapsthewanderer]

Plated II

The knives are sharp. The heat’s real. Love has no place here—so why does it keep showing up?

Synopsis: In a heat-soaked kitchen where pressure simmers and perfection is law, you stand shoulder to shoulder with a team of brilliant misfits—each carrying their own scars, secrets, and fire.

From Caleb’s controlled intensity to Sylus’s velvet power plays, Rafayel’s chaotic beauty, Zayne’s surgical focus, and Xavier’s quiet steadiness, every shift cuts deeper than the last.

This is a story of tension, taste, and slow-burn hearts—where trust is plated, feelings are forbidden, and love might just be the most dangerous ingredient.

Details: 6400ish words. The Bear AU goes harem drama, non MC reader! The slowburn has officially come to an end—world-building complete, and we’re diving in. This chapter includes: fluff, stress, banter, Raf being the most theatrical man alive, Caleb wrecking hearts (with zero remorse?), Zayne and Caleb drama and Sylus casually power-playing both you and his entire staff. Xav is a star. Definitely 18+ adult stuff, heavy kissing incoming. Brace yourself for the next chapter. It only gets wilder lol.

Tags: @gavin3469 @animegamerfox

Chapters: Pilot, chapter one, chapter three, chapter four, chapter five

Needs blood | Chapter two

You drag yourself upright, groggy, heart thudding in your chest. The wine. Too much. Not too much. Just enough to keep you dreaming about leadership and pressure and the words—“I brought you here to lead.”

You groan. Shuffle to the door in nothing but an oversized black T-shirt that hangs low on your thighs, sleeves falling past your elbows.

You unlock it.

There he is.

Caleb. Sweaty from his run, hoodie slung around his neck, shirt clinging in all the wrong places. One hand holding his phone, the other clutching a folded paper.

His mouth is already open to speak—then he stops.

Eyes lower.

Linger.

And narrow.

“…Is that my shirt?”

You blink. “…What?”

He tilts his head, slow and dangerous.

“That’s my shirt.”

You look down at the fabric. The worn collar. The faint, nearly invisible oil stain by the hem.

Oh.

“Caleb—”

“Nope.” He leans against the doorframe. “You made me run three extra blocks because I thought something was wrong. Turns out you were just wine-wrecked and wearing the softest shirt known to mankind.”

He exhales like it’s physically paining him not to laugh. “You never gave it back.”

Then, quieter—“After the egg incident. When Xavier set off that ridiculous steam trap and you walked out looking like a soufflé.”

Your face warms. “It was clean.”

“Barely,” he mutters. Then his smile turns sharp, warm. “But I missed that shirt.”

A pause. “Turns out, you wear it better anyway.”

You fold your arms. Regret every second of opening this door.

He grins like he just won a bet he didn’t need to place.

“Anyways. Good morning, chef.”

He holds up the folded paper like a trophy.

“Now let’s read how close we came to greatness.”

His eyes sweep you once—hair damp, bare legs, hoodie slipping off one shoulder.

“You’re free to read it like that, by the way.”

A beat.

“But I can’t be held responsible for where that leads.”

You give him a look. You consider it.

Yet ten minutes later—you’ve changed.

The shirt’s replaced with something less compromising. Your hands are warm around the coffee mug as you lean against the counter, watching him pace across your kitchen, the review unfolded in his hands like it’s a classified document.

Caleb’s still flushed from his run, the hoodie now tossed over a nearby chair. His hair’s a little wild, sweat-damp at the temples. The paper flutters slightly with every motion of his hands.

“Here we go,” he mutters. “Opening line: ‘Plated is not for the faint of appetite.’”

He glances up at you. “Good start or warning?”

You sip. “Depends on the appetite.”

“Next: ‘From the first pour to the final plate, there’s an intensity to the place—one that feels deliberate.’”

A pause. He looks over the rim of the page.

“That’s Sylus. That’s totally Sylus—”

You move to pour Caleb’s mug.

He pauses mid-sentence. “Apple juice in mine. If you have some, that is.”

You stop. Turn. “…What?”

He doesn’t look up. “Try it. Trust me.”

You stare. Then shrug. And do it.

Only in his.

He takes a sip without flinching.

“Right. Raf. Here we go.” He clears his throat like it’s the main event.

“‘The dessert—a burnt citrus caramel with a blood orange shell—was nothing short of devastating. There’s flair, yes, but beneath it: precision. Rage, even. Like sweetness offered as defiance.’”

You blink. “Wow.”

Caleb grins. “I know. I think he’s going to print this and frame it.”

You lean back against the counter, refilling your mug. Caleb swirls his like he’s tasting notes of chaos and poor judgment.

“You seriously drink it like that?”

He shrugs. “It keeps me awake and concerned. Two essential states of mind.”

You snort softly.

He glances back at the paper. “Okay—next up. Timing.”

He reads: “There is one dish that arrives not just on time, but at the exact second it’s needed. Plated with such clean intention it feels sterile—but never cold. There’s something almost unnerving about that kind of precision. It cuts through the meal like a scalpel.”

He lowers the paper, smirking.

“Gee. Wonder who that could be.”

You’re already unlocking your phone.

“We’re calling him.”

He grins. “Put him on speaker.”

You tap the screen and hand your phone to Caleb. Zayne’s voice answers on the third tone. Flat. Alert. Not even groggy.

“What?”

“Morning, sunshine,” Caleb says, already smug. “You made the review.”

A beat.

“…Didn’t read it.”

You glance at each other.

“We figured,” you say. “Want the highlight?”

A pause. The faint sound of a door closing on Zayne’s end.

“Go on.”

Caleb clears his throat dramatically. “Sterile but never cold. Plated with clean intention. Unnerving precision. Cuts like a scalpel.” He lowers the page with a grin audible in his voice. “You’re officially terrifying.”

Zayne doesn’t respond immediately. Then:

“…They didn’t hate it?”

You smile.

“They didn’t hate it.”

Another pause. Then, just faintly:

“…Good.”

You can hear him sip something on the other end. Not black coffee, as you’d might expect—something sweeter. Probably laced with vanilla syrup and quiet shame.

“And the rest?” Zayne asks.

Caleb flips the page with the same energy as someone unwrapping something dangerous.

“Raf stole the entire back half. The dessert paragraph’s basically poetry.”

You chime in: “He made citrus sound like a battle cry.”

Zayne huffs—almost a laugh. “He’ll be impossible now.”

“Correct,” Caleb says. “Which is why we’re letting him sleep until noon.”

Zayne sighs.

“Call me if there’s real news.”

Click.

Caleb sets your phone down and exhales through his nose, still grinning.

“He’s pleased. That was Zayne’s version of fireworks.”

You sip your coffee again. Still too hot.

Caleb lifts the paper like a curtain.

“Let’s finish it, Hotshot.”

And you nod. Because whatever it says next, you’re ready to burn through it. Caleb flips to the last page like it might bite him. You watch him skim, eyes flicking across the text.

“No mention of Xavier yet,” you murmur, leaning over slightly. “Unless he snuck in under ‘atmosphere.’”

“Probably filed under mysterious ambient presence,” Caleb says, deadpan. “Or ‘sleeping garnish spirit.’”

You snort into your mug.

Then he pauses.

“Ah. Here’s Sylus.”

“Owner Sylus made a rare appearance at the front of house, offering the opening pour himself. The selection—a champagne from Montagne de Reims—was elegant and disarming. It’s a clever tactic: to control the mood before the food. A performance before the curtain rises.”

He glances up. “Disarming, huh?”

You raise an eyebrow. “He probably whispered the grape’s lineage like it was a war poem.”

“There’s no point calling him,” Caleb mutters, folding the paper. “He’s probably slumbering in velvet sheets inside a climate-controlled wine vault. Do not disturb until sundown.”

“Or unless we break a glass.”

He gives you a look. “God help us if we chip a decanter.”

The laughter fades, soft around the edges, and the quiet settles again.

Caleb taps the page.

“Here it is. Final line.”

His voice evens out. He doesn’t smile this time.

“Once a rising star in a kitchen that burned too hot, too fast—Caleb is the phoenix, if he’s willing to rise. But this time, he doesn’t fly alone. He has a brigade built sharper, steadier—and an anchor that holds the line when the flames grow high.”

He doesn’t look at you yet. Just breathes out through his nose.

Then: “There is fire in this kitchen. Not always contained. Not always kind. But fire nonetheless. I’ve seen stars born in less.”

He lowers the paper.

Your heart taps once, sharp and clear.

Neither of you says anything for a second.

Then—Caleb tilts his head slightly, watching you.

His voice drops just a little.

“They saw you.”

You meet his eyes.

“Did they?”

He holds the silence for one breath. Two.

Then—

“Yeah. They did.”

You nod, quietly. Sip your coffee. You’re still standing.

“An anchor…” he says quietly.

You don’t answer. You don’t have to.

He looks at you then. Really looks. Not teasing. Not assessing. Just there.

And then he’s moving.

No warning.

He closes the space between you in two easy steps, arms looping around you, strong and steady and suddenly everything.

He pulls you close and holds on tight—tighter than you expect. The only thing between you is your hand curled around the warm mug, pressed to your chest like a fragile secret. Caleb doesn’t try to move it. Doesn’t try to move you. His warmth seeps in—quiet and steady—melting through places you didn’t realize had gone cold.

You blink. Once. Then again.

You don’t remember the last time you were held like this.

His breath is right above your ear when he says it:

“I’m so proud of you.”

Quiet. Firm. No smirk. No show.

He doesn’t let go right away.

And when he does, his hands linger a second longer than they need to—sliding away like he’s reluctant to leave that warmth behind.

He clears his throat. “We should meet the others.”

You nod, blinking again.

He tosses the paper onto the counter, then grabs his hoodie. Halfway to the door, he calls over his shoulder: “Text them. I’ll see you there.”

And just like that, he’s gone.

You’re left standing in the quiet.

The review still sitting on the counter.

And the warmth of his arms still stitched into your spine.

You reach for your phone.

It’s time to bring the brigade back together.

————————————-——————————————

The beach isn’t warm.

It’s cold in the kind of way that seeps into your sleeves and catches behind your collar. Gray sky, damp air, sand still dark from the night before. But the sea keeps moving—and so do you.

The brigade shows up anyway.

Zayne is already there. Coat long and dark, collar up against the wind. He doesn’t look like he planned to arrive first—but he’s perched on a driftwood log with a cup of something warm in his hands and a quiet watchfulness in his expression. When you approach, he doesn’t look surprised.

“They forced me,” he says, before you can ask. He doesn’t move.

But he stays.

Xavier follows quietly, hoodie under jacket, bringing something that might be homemade trail mix. Or birdseed. He offers it to everyone with sleepy eyes and no explanation.

Caleb arrives last of the inner circle, paper bag under one arm, a scarf around his neck like he walked out of a black-and-white film. He doesn’t speak right away—just looks at you, lips tugging into that quiet, lopsided smile that feels like it belongs to only you.

But the real center of gravity?

Rafayel.

Already there.

Already theatrical.

He’s splayed across a massive velvet blanket like it’s a chaise lounge in Paris. His coat is long and ridiculous—somewhere between oil-slick and plum. A scarf is tied over his hair like he’s mourning a poet. His sunglasses are far too glamorous for the weather.

As you arrive, he throws out his arms like he’s receiving communion.

“Dear chefs,” he croons, “the muse demands tribute.”

Caleb raises an eyebrow. “You mean pastries?”

“I mean praise,” Raf says, standing with a flare of fabric. “But fine. I’ll accept baked goods.”

“You said half an hour,” Zayne mutters. “We’re going on one.”

“The sun demanded more of me,” Raf sighs. “And the wind tried to negotiate, but I do not haggle with weather.”

You sit beside him. He lets you. Leans into your shoulder, not for warmth—just because he can.

“You did it,” you say.

He hums, light and airy. But quieter than before. “We did.”

Then—

He exhales. The sunglasses come off. His eyes catch in the gray light—pinkish blue, squinting against the wind.

“They called it devastating,” he says softly. Then with more flair: “Do you know how deeply I want that carved on my grave?”

You laugh. But his voice dips again, just enough: “What if I can’t do it again?”

You turn to look at him. His jaw is set, lips pulled tight at the corners like he’s daring you to call him dramatic. But the edge in his voice is real.

You bump your shoulder against his, gentle. “Then we’ll devastate them together.”

He closes his eyes for half a second.

Then sighs. “Ugh, you’re all so sentimental when I’m vulnerable.”

From the side, Caleb calls out: “You mean when you’re honest?”

“Absolutely not,” Raf says, sitting upright. “I am never honest. I am aesthetic.”

“Is that what you call that coat?” Zayne deadpans.

“This coat,” Raf gasps, pulling it tighter, “is sharper than your principles.”

The ocean hisses behind you. The waves roll in, quiet and constant. Somewhere, gulls cry like lost kitchen timers. Xavier has wrapped himself in a blanket and is now fully horizontal on the sand.

Caleb hands you a pastry from the paper bag.

Almond. Warm. Somehow.

The wind picks up.

And then—

a car pulls up.

Far end of the lot. Quiet. Clean.

You all look up.

Sylus steps out.

Impeccable. Black coat to the knees. Gloves. Impossibly polished shoes that will never touch the sand.

He walks toward you like the wind doesn’t dare touch him. In his hand: a single bottle of deep red wine, nearly black in the shadowed light.

He stops in front of Raf.

“Chef.” No smile.

He extends the bottle with one gloved hand.

“Sangiovese. Tuscany. 2010.”

His voice like velvet dragged across crystal.

“You may celebrate now.”

Raf blinks. Then clutches the bottle like a rescued infant. “I have never felt so seen.”

Sylus raises an eyebrow. “Try not to pair it with anything pedestrian, chef.”

Zayne mumbles, “That’s a challenge if I’ve ever heard one.”

“No,” Sylus replies. “It’s a warning.”

He casts a glance over the group—his eyes catching yours last.

A nod. Just once. And he’s gone. Back to the car. Back to mystery. Coat snapping in the wind like punctuation.

You all sit in the pause he left behind.

Raf stares at the bottle like it might sing to him.

“I’m not opening it today,” he says solemnly. “It needs to be dramatic. Maybe lightning. Or sabotage. Or an affair.”

Caleb tosses him a corkscrew anyway.

——————————————————————————

By the end of the week…

——————————————————————————

The morning is heavy with silver light. The kind of light that feels quiet, even when the city isn’t.

You’re first through the door. The air inside is clean but cold—citrus, steel, and something just beneath: anticipation.

The pass is dark. The hoods silent.

You click the lights on one by one.

The kitchen inhales.

Then—

The door swings open. Caleb strides in, not rushed, but moving like he already knows how the day will end.

He’s on the phone, sleeves pushed up, jaw tight.

“He doesn’t touch the line unless I say so.”

A pause. He listens. Doesn’t blink.

“You want fireworks, call a show. I’m running a kitchen.”

He ends the call with one finger and a practiced exhale.

His eyes find yours instantly.

“Special menu. One-night only.”

You glance toward the prep list. “Sylus?”

“Who else.” He tosses a sheet of paper onto the counter. You catch it before it slides off.

——————————————————————————

Fire & Smoke

A post-review tribute.

— Featuring the Ravaging Dessert by Chef Rafayel.

——————————————————————————

You raise a brow. “He called it a tribute?”

“He called it marketing.”

He crosses to the whiteboard and picks up a marker. His handwriting is precise, like everything else he does when he’s trying not to think too hard.

“Sylus built the menu himself. Seven courses locked. Only thing left is the plat principal.”

You pause. “Why?”

Caleb’s voice dips—dry, exact.

“Because he wants a spectacle.”

By the time Raf arrives, the air’s already changed.

He doesn’t walk in—he sweeps, trailing fabric like storm clouds and attitude. His coat is somewhere between baroque upholstery and avant-garde rebellion, and his scarf is wrapped high, pinned with something that sparkles like a stolen heirloom.

He stops dead in the doorway, clutching a canvas bag to his chest as if shielding from a world that doesn’t deserve him.

“This,” he declares to no one in particular, “is a gross misuse of my creative superiority.”

He strides to his station, unspooling a tangled mess of herbs like he’s unrolling ancient scrolls.

“I was meant for galleries. For tragic love affairs involving painters with cheekbones sharp enough to cut fruit—not price-fixed menus orchestrated by capitalist vampires.”

From the far doorway, a voice like honey stirred through smoke:

“And yet you’re sold out.”

Sylus.

Holding an espresso cup so small it’s practically mocking the concept of caffeine. He doesn’t enter. He arrives. His coat is black, his gaze amused, his smirk painted with patience and profit.

“Full house,” he says. “People are calling it the aftermath menu.”

“You’re making money off my devastation,” Raf mutters.

“As any wise man would.” Sylus sips, unbothered. “Yet… We’re missing a centerpiece.”

He lays the printed menu down on the counter like a playing card. “Dessert’s already infamous. The rest? Solid. Professional.”

His crimson eyes flick toward Caleb.

“But this menu doesn’t just need polish.”

A slow smile.

“It needs blood.”

The room tightens. Even the steam from the stovetop seems to pause.

Caleb straightens from where he’s been overseeing prep. His ash-brown hair is pushed back from his forehead, damp at the temples. His arms are bare to the elbows, tension rolling beneath pale skin. Violet eyes cut toward Sylus like a warning dressed in steel.

“I’ve already approved the main dish.”

“You’ve approved it.” Sylus lifts one eyebrow, smooth and slow. “I haven’t.”

The kitchen door swings open again—clean, silent.

Zayne steps in, already rolling his sleeves up. His black hair is slightly tousled like he walked here fast, eyes sharp behind silver-framed glasses.

“Apologies,” he says calmly, setting his bag down and heading to the sink to wash his hands. “I got Sylus’ text.”

Caleb doesn’t look up from the prep table—just lifts his eyes for one beat.

Zayne meets the gaze.

No words. Just the slight nod between two men who know exactly what’s about to hit them.

Sylus.

Whatever this night is—it’s not going to be quiet.

Zayne dries his hands. Picks up his cleaver. And sets it on the board with a soft, purposeful clack. He rolls his shoulders once—discreet, economical—and brushes his black bangs from his eyes. His sharp green gaze slides toward Caleb.

Stillness.

Then, Sylus steps closer. “Two chefs. One dish. One claim to the plat principal.”

A hush falls so complete you can hear the low hum of the lights above.

Zayne’s tone is colder—cut from stone. He speaks without pause, without emotion:

“I’ll cook.”

Caleb doesn’t flinch. He stares Sylus down, jaw tight, the corner of his mouth lifting—not in a smile. Something hungrier. His voice drops:

“I’ll win, boss.”

——————————————————————————

Stations cleared.

Rules announced.

Sylus sets the stage with precision. “Monkfish. Forty-five minutes. Use anything in the pantry. No help.”

Raf practically floats to the pass, coat flaring like a cape. He drapes himself dramatically across the edge, hands clasped. “Ladies. Gentlemen. And lovers of all things seared—welcome to what will surely be remembered as the Reduction of Egos.”

And then—

A voice from nowhere.

“The line’s about to split.”

You spin.

Xavier is just there, leaning against the walk-in, a towel tossed over one shoulder, a single sprig of rosemary hanging from his fingers like a cigarette.

Raf jumps half a step. “Jesus—how long have you been there?”

Xavier blinks slowly. “Since Zayne came in.”

You and Raf share a look—equal parts impressed and unsettled. Xavier shrugs. “Thought it’d be rude to interrupt the pre-battle tension.”

Then he wanders off toward the dish sink like nothing’s about to explode.

Your eyes flick back to the line. Your pulse ticks louder. The clock starts.

Caleb moves first.

Fast. Fluid. The flame obeys him like it remembers his touch.

He fillets the monkfish in three clean motions, the knife kissing the flesh like he’s danced this step before. His hands are confident—the hands of someone who’s held a brigade together with nothing but command and heat. Oil in the pan. Fennel hits the board. Wine reduced to memory.

He doesn’t talk.

He commands the silence.

Zayne doesn’t rush.

He’s deliberate. Precise. He salts like he’s measuring atoms. The monkfish is scored like calligraphy, the skin seared under a weighted press. Hazel green eyes flick only to the clock—never to Caleb. Black hair strands falls once over his brow. He doesn’t push it back. He just keeps going.

His plate forms like a thesis. Every color chosen. Every sauce exact.

Raf, voice hushed like an announcer in a cathedral: “Caleb’s building something from instinct. From pressure. From fire. Zayne’s plating the thing Caleb feels—but he’s doing it cleaner.”

Xavier, eyes tracking both without blinking: “It’s not speed. It’s control. Caleb’s cooking like the world’s ending. Zayne’s cooking like it already did.”

The moment the bell sounds, both dishes land. Caleb and Zayne each call “hands,” almost in unison— reflexive, controlled, voices even.

A trained instinct. Like stopping themselves from yelling in a room that still echoes with ghosts, even during a cook-off held behind closed doors.

The heat still curls off the sauce. Both plates gleam under the hood light—one elegant chaos, one immaculate control.

Sylus steps forward.

He picks up a fork. Tastes Zayne’s first.

His expression doesn’t change.

Then—Caleb’s.

A longer pause. He chews, closes his eyes.

The kind of silence that feels like it might swallow the room whole.

Then—

He turns to you.

Red eyes unreadable.

“Chef.”

Your throat tightens.

You taste both.

Zayne’s is stunning. Exact. Cold beauty.

Caleb’s is heat, weight, memory.

But only one dish is leading.

You point to Zayne’s.

The kitchen freezes.

You don’t justify. You don’t explain.

Caleb’s jaw flexes. Just once.

His violet gaze drops to the steel. Then back up, like he’s locking himself down—before the burn escapes.

He doesn’t argue.

He doesn’t move.

And Sylus—voice smooth as ever, soft enough to gut:

“Well then.”

A beat.

“Starboy’s lost his shine.”

It hits.

Raf actually gasps.

Xavier’s eyes widen, blue under the glow like water catching lightning.

Even Zayne’s fingers curl once around the edge of the counter—just once.

Caleb doesn’t speak.

But he takes off his apron.

Folds it. Sets it down.

The slow turn of his heel is louder than anything else in the room.

He walks.

Through the line.

Past the pass.

Out the door.

Gone.

The kitchen doesn’t move.

Not at first.

The silence settles like dust, soft and heavy, hanging in the steam-warmed air.

Then Raf—stunned, breath caught somewhere between awe and heartbreak—whispers: “I’ve never wanted to faint and write poetry at the same time until this moment.”

And from across the line, Xavier’s voice comes quieter still—steady, strange, unshakably certain: “Stars don’t die.” A pause, almost reverent. “They collapse. Quietly.” Another breath. “And the gravity stays.”

——————————————————————————

The service is tight. Fast.

Caleb doesn’t bark. He barely speaks.

Orders come clipped, clean, just enough to keep the machine moving.

He doesn’t pace the line. Eyes everywhere. Hands silent. He doesn’t look at the pass like a battlefield anymore. He just holds it.

And the brigade?

They follow like it’s instinct. Like they were built for this exact weight.

Raf’s dessert hits the pass like a closing aria—bitter citrus, burnt sugar, the echo of rage folded into grace. The plates come back empty. One by one. Gleaming.

Zayne doesn’t miss a beat. His timing is surgical. His knives don’t hesitate. He doesn’t look up—but he hears everything. Every motion. Every breath.

Xavier? He doesn’t walk. He glides.

A shadow behind the line, exactly where he needs to be before anyone says a word. He replaces towels. Catches a falling ladle mid-air. Adjusts garnish like it’s wind-blown. He moves like time bends for him. Like he already lived this service, and came back just to make it smoother.

The pass pulses with momentum.

No one talks.

They don’t have to.

Because Caleb’s still burning.

Just lower.

Just closer.

Barely contained.

And when the last plate clears—

When the final note has rung and the kitchen exhales—

You slip out the back door. Let the cool alley air wrap around your skin like steel-washed silk.

Xavier’s already there.

A blanket draped over his shoulders like a cloak. He’s holding a mug of tea that’s still steaming, though it’s hard to say if he’s drunk any. His blond bangs fall lazily over his eyes—bright, pale blue beneath. He looks like a dream with a spine.

As you step out into the cool air, he shifts—just slightly. Without looking at you, he lifts one side of the blanket.

An invitation. Silent. Effortless.

You don’t hesitate. You step in close, and he lets the blanket fall around your shoulders too. The warmth is soft and instant, but the quiet companionship is even warmer. He doesn’t look at you. Just says:

“You know what I noticed?”

You wait.

“They didn’t even talk about the food.” A pause. He swirls his tea without looking down. “It wasn’t about cooking. It was about who was left.”

You breathe out, watching your own steam mingle with his.

Xavier shifts slightly, the blanket bunching around his elbows. He glances toward you now—his eyes catch the light from the kitchen vent, just enough to glow that soft, impossible blue.

He studies you for a moment. Thoughtful. Almost sleepy. Then: “I read the review.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Did you?”

He nods. “It described you as the anchor.”

You blink. The words linger strangely.

He lifts the mug again, doesn’t sip. “I thought that was funny.”

You tilt your head. “Why?”

He turns his gaze back to the alley, to the quiet city beyond.

“Because I already said that. Days ago.”

You pause. “You think it’s strange that it matched?”

Xavier finally looks at you again. Really looks.

His voice is soft, but the words are sharp in their simplicity: “Not strange. Just correct.”

You smile. A little helpless.

He watches you, blinking slowly, like you’re something familiar and still a bit magical. Then, very quietly: “You hold all of us. Even when you don’t notice.”

And then he sips his tea, eyes closing for a moment like the warmth has reached all the way through.

A gust of wind pulls his bangs aside. For one breath, you see the full brightness of him. A childlike shell with the soul of a thousand quiet rooms. He’s not just observant.

He understands.

You settle beside him beneath the blanket, the quiet stretching wide around you. And then—gently—you let your head rest on his shoulder.

He doesn’t shift or speak. He just sips his tea once, eyes half-lidded, as if the moment was expected. You feel the urge to snuggle closer—to let the warmth, the stillness, the Xavier-ness of him settle the last of the tension in your chest.

So you do. And he lets you.

Steam.

Silence.

And the anchor.

Then, after a while—

His voice again, quiet and sure: “Caleb survived.” He doesn’t look at you. Not yet. “But he didn’t come back the same.”

Xavier turns. “Maybe he’s not supposed to.”

The door slams open.

Caleb.

Hair pushed back, coat half-buttoned, fire in every line of his body.

“I’ve had it.” His voice is low, clipped, but crackling with heat. “I don’t care how many bottles Sylus opens, or what kind of blood he squeezes from the press release. I’m not doing this anymore.”

You straighten. “Caleb—”

“No. I’m done.” He runs a hand through his hair, pacing, eyes flashing. “It’s not the work. It’s him. It’s the way he plays with people. With fire. I rebuilt myself after that last kitchen. I won’t burn out again just because he wants another headline.”

His fists clench, then release. But he doesn’t calm. He looks at you—just once.

Eyes full. Angry. Tired.

Then—

He turns and walks.

Out into the night.

Gone.

Silence again.

You’re still by the wall, breath caught.

Xavier sips his tea once more. Doesn’t speak. Then, softly—

He nods toward the alley.

Not a word.

Just a gesture.

Go.

You don’t hesitate.

You push off the wall the moment Xavier nods, feet already in motion, the door still swinging behind Caleb.

He’s fast when he’s angry. Always has been—like motion’s the only thing that keeps him from combusting. You spot him a block ahead, already cutting across the intersection, sleeves rolled up, pace clipped, jaw tight.

You call his name.

He doesn’t stop.

So you run.

Your boots echo off the sidewalk as you catch up, breath fogging in the cold. You reach out—fingers just barely grazing his wrist.

He halts.

Not all at once—more like he lets himself be stopped. Shoulders still braced. Pulse still hammering.

“Caleb.”

He turns halfway. His jaw’s tight. His violet eyes—storm-lit.

But they’re tired.

“I can’t do this,” he says, low. “Not like this. Not when he’s using us like pieces. I rebuilt everything after that last place. Everything. I can’t burn it down again for someone else’s performance.”

He runs a hand through his hair—messing it up worse, bangs in his eyes now, breathing hard like he’s still mid-sprint. “It’s not the work. You know that. It’s him. The way he pushes. The way he smiles while we break.”

You step in. Closer.

“Take a breath.”

“I have.” His fists clench again. Then open. Then clench. “I told Sylus I’m not coming in tomorrow. Before I almost—” He breaks off. Shakes his head.

“I was inches from hitting him. And the worst part?” He looks at you now, finally—really looks. “I don’t even know if it would’ve made me feel better.”

You find the bench without words. A few feet away. Half-lit by a buzzing streetlamp.

You sit first. He doesn’t move at first, then sighs—grudgingly, like he knows he’ll follow you even before he starts walking.

He drops onto the bench beside you. Stiff. Tense.

“Do you remember that night?” he asks suddenly. “Culinary school. After the exam. When we sat on the sidewalk with burnt toast and frozen peas because the oven broke and I said we’d improvise?”

You smile. Slowly. “You stole the wine from the instructor’s cooler.”

Caleb lets out a half-laugh. Just a puff of air. “You kissed me on the cheek that night.”

You turn to look at him.

“I remember.”

The silence stretches.

And then—he reaches for your hand.

Just once.

His fingers slip between yours, tentative and hot and so sure.

And then you’re leaning in.

He meets you halfway.

Slow at first. Then deeper. Then—more.

His hand cups your jaw, steady. The other slides behind your knee, pulling you up and into his lap like it’s the only place you’ve ever belonged.

Your fingers knot into the front of his shirt.

He groans. Low. From somewhere buried in his chest. His mouth open over yours, breath sharp, tongue brushing yours like he’s claiming every last second he’s denied. Strong hands settle at your hips, then grip, dragging you down against him.

Grinding.

You feel him. All of him. Your lips part, and he bites—soft, but with teeth. Your lip catches between his, and he doesn’t let go until you gasp his name.

His eyes flash—violet in the dark, wild with restraint.

“Come home with me,” you whisper, your breath skating the edge of his mouth. Your voice is low, but steady. “You always had a reason, Caleb.”

He freezes—just slightly.

“Another shift. Another call. Another shot at proving something.” You swallow. “And every time, I let you walk away.”

Your hand moves up, thumb brushing the hinge of his jaw—slow, aching. “You’d leave me half-undressed with excuses still clinging to your mouth.”

A pause.

His eyes close for a beat—like your words landed where he couldn’t brace for them.

You breathe him in. “Don’t care about the career. Not tonight. Don’t choose it over me. Not again.”

And when you kiss him, it’s full of every time he almost stayed.

Caleb freezes.

Just for a second.

Then clutches his jaw tight, like it physically hurts to pull away. He does anyway. Breaks the kiss—but only just.

His forehead leans against yours again, voice shaking as it leaves him: “You’re killing me.”

And you know he means it. His hands still cradle your thighs. His pulse bangs in your ears. His mouth hovers so close you could slip back into him with half a breath.

But he stays still.

“Not like this,” he mutters again.

His forehead rests harder against yours, like it’s holding something in. “I really can’t.” It sounds like it hurts. “I’m your boss. I can’t… not like this.”

A breath catches between you. His hand tightens against your side, then loosens—like even touching you makes this harder.

“I never meant for you to walk into my kitchen,” he murmurs. “Didn’t ask for it. Didn’t want it.”

You blink. But he keeps going—soft, low, barely audible above your breath.

“When Sylus introduced the new hire and I saw you…” His eyes close for just a second. “I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know what to do.”

A pause. His voice frays.

“I didn’t want to be your boss, Hotshot…”

His confession hovers—raw, electric. Like something neither of you were meant to say out loud. Then—

“I just wanted to cook beside you again.”

You feel the heat from his skin. His hand still in yours.

“I want to.” His voice is hoarse, thick with every time he didn’t say it. “You have no idea how much I want to.”

Then—his voice drops even lower. Barely more than breath: “Everything I’ve done—every step forward, every goddamn shift I took… it was always to build something good enough.”

A pause. You don’t dare move.

“So you’d never have to stay overtime. So you’d never burn out like I did. So you’d walk into a kitchen and know someone already bled for you.”

His voice cracks at the edges.

“I thought if I became the best, I could finally be enough. For you.”

And in the hush that follows—your voice cuts through, soft but steady.

“I never asked you to.”

You squeeze his hand.

He lets you.

And that’s what breaks him.

Not the kiss.

Not the fire.

But the truth he never let himself hear.

“I’m going to take tomorrow off. Clear my head. I have to. I can feel it happening again.” A pause. “I’m trying not to burn.”

You don’t say anything else.

Neither does he.

You just sit there, hand in hand, the cold biting at your ankles, but his palm stays warm. The quiet of the street hums around you. Distant traffic. A flicker of neon from a bodega across the intersection.

He exhales slowly, eyes forward. You watch the tension in his shoulders loosen by degrees—like maybe, just maybe, he’s letting go.

Your phone buzzes in your coat pocket.

You fish it out, thumb brushing the screen.

XAVIER: Let him rest. Let yourself, too. A good flame never dies. It just finds better fuel.

You smile. A soft, tired kind.

You look at Caleb. He’s watching the sky now, like it might answer something.

You squeeze his hand once more—then gently let go.

“I’ll text you tomorrow,” you say.

He nods, slow. The corners of his mouth twitch up—not quite a smile, but close.

You stand.

And walk back into the city glow, the weight of the night trailing behind you like steam off a still-warm plate.

Your phone buzzes again.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Where the hell did everyone go

I turned around and you all VANISHED like ghosts in a tragic romance

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown to: Helloo?? Is this kitchen cursed??

Do we need a group exorcism or just better communication skills???

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Why do I feel like I’m the only emotionally available one here?? Send help.

You huff out a quiet laugh.

YOU to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Breathe, chef. We’re still here.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Lies. You’re literally GONE. But fine.

Your phone buzzes again.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: I have a plan. Don’t ask. It involves fairy lights, Zayne’s tolerance threshold, and possibly emotional whiplash. I’ll get back to you.

A pause.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: No one gets to spiral into oblivion on my time. Not when I still have glitter and questionable playlists to weaponize.

Then one more line, quieter.

Careful.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: I just… want everyone to feel okay again. That’s all.

The typing dots linger…

Then vanish.

Seconds later, your phone lights up again.

ZAYNE to group chat Brigade Breakdown: If this involves singing, I’m out. If it involves cake, I’m listening. Don’t make me regret this.

XAVIER to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Will there be cats? If not, I will accept glowing drinks and uninterrupted wall space. Also… thank you.

YOU to group chat Brigade Breakdown: I’m in. Don’t scare Xavier. Or Zayne. Too much.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: No promises. Only glitter. And maybe a slow dance. Depending on who apologizes first.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: And if Xavier brings up cats again, I’m walking into the ocean. I don’t care if it’s metaphorical. I hate them.

XAVIER to group chat Brigade Breakdown: i just think they’re cute… you’re the one spiraling

ZAYNE to group chat Brigade Breakdown: I don’t own one. But I’d trust a cat over most people.

RAFAYEL to group chat Brigade Breakdown: This is why I can’t have one day of peace. You’re both sympathizers.

XAVIER to group chat Brigade Breakdown: correct

ZAYNE to group chat Brigade Breakdown: Accurate.

Still nothing from Caleb.

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering.

You tuck your phone away.

And keep walking.

——————————————————————————

Chapter three

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: Oookay peepz! That was the second-to-last chapter before my brain officially switches to radio silence. Well… sort of. You know me—I always have something simmering. I can’t wait to yeet the next chapter into the void so you can help steer the chaos with a lil poll vote (no pressure, just a fun choose-your-path moment—like a proper otome game, heeeh). Also! I’ll be posting something I’ve called Plated Interludes during the week—just little snippets full of banter, fun, and questionable choices. I’m down so bad in this AU, and I’m seriously so grateful you’re sticking around for the ride. Hearts all around! Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻

[mapsthewanderer]

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, part 8, part 9, part 10

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

——————————————————————————

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 🫶🏻

[that-one-scoundrel]

@gavin3469 look at this. you so right about the gun thing TT TT

──── 𝑮𝑼𝑵𝑷𝑶𝑰𝑵𝑻

╰ 𝒁𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆, 𝑺𝒚𝒍𝒖𝒔, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒃 LOVE AND DEEPSPACE

note: inspired by @starmocha

[mapsthewanderer]

Caffeine, chemistry and Caleb VII

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: 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: part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 8, part 9, part 10

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

——————————————————————————

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 🫶🏻

[mapsthewanderer]

The Maze

Synopsis: In a future where war and technology have blurred the line between man and machine, Caleb was resurrected—not as who he was, but as who he was programmed to be. With only 3% of his original self left intact, the latest reboot of his chip has reshaped his logic, his purpose, and his understanding of his emotions towards you.

Bound by his own design, he has built you the Maze—a flawless, shifting sanctuary meant to protect the one person he refuses to lose. But protection and captivity are two sides of the same coin, and inside the Maze, freedom is just another unsolvable puzzle.

Will you escape, or will Stockholm Syndrome take hold before that day?

Details: 3500ish words. Some kind of spin off AU, but it corresponds with in-game canons. Obsessive Caleb. Yandere Caleb. Controlling Caleb. Crazy hot Caleb. Fem reader. Dom!Caleb. I mean it. He’s absolutely feral dom (imo). Freak vs freak. Psychological thriller, p0rn with plot. 18+ and super filthy explicit language. This is the dom-iest I’ve written Caleb. And it’s all for the plot, I promise. This is not for the faint of heart, ok? You are warned.

Chapters: chapter one, chapter two, chapter three, chapter five, chapter six, chapter seven, chapter eight (final chapter)

Tags: @gavin3469 @mcdepressed290 @justpassingdontworry

Loophole | Chapter four

The Maze, somewhere, you

The air is thick, charged, humming with artificial electricity as you sprint down the winding corridors, the breath in your lungs sharp and burning. The Maze shifts around you, walls recalibrating, openings appearing and sealing off just as quickly—a living, breathing thing designed to keep you trapped.

Designed by him.

Your muscles already ache from the chase, your heartbeat thrumming like a war drum, but you crave it—the rush, the unbearable anticipation crawling up your spine. Thank god dinner was light—just enough to sustain you, not enough to weigh you down, leaving only the hunger that truly matters.

Because you know he is close.

Somewhere behind you, Caleb is hunting. Calculating. Stalking.

He is going to catch you.

But not yet.

Not until you made him work for it.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, somewhere, Caleb

His footsteps are slow, measured, deliberate—click, click, click—echoing through the steel corridors, following the path you’ve unknowingly laid out for him.

Because you are predictable.

Not in your escape routes, not in the way you twist through the Maze like something wild and untamed—

Caleb tilts his head slightly, watching you just ahead, watching the way your body moves, the way your breath comes in sharp, quick bursts—each inhale lifting your chest, each stride making the hem of your skirt flick higher, teasing glimpses of bare skin with every desperate movement.

And for a second—just a second—something deep inside his chest claws against its cage.

Not yet.

He swallows it down, smooths it over, lets the darkness curl through his smirk as he watches you sprint, as he watches the exact moment your pulse kicks too high, too sharp.

His fingers flex at his sides.

Time to catch you.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, somewhere, you

Your feet barely make a sound against the cold, smooth floor, but the Maze feels it. Every movement. Every desperate breath. Every flick of fabric against your thighs as your skirt shifts with each stride. The thin tank top clings to your skin, damp with sweat, the air cool against your overheated body.

You’d picked it on purpose.

Something unassuming. Non-threatening. Innocent.

But now?

You feel like prey.

Your legs burn, muscles screaming, lungs fighting for air, but you don’t slow.

You can’t.

Because behind you—

He’s there.

Not running. Not chasing.

Not yet.

Just watching. Waiting. Hunting.

A steady, calculated click, click, click of boots on steel somewhere behind you.

Measured. Unhurried.

A predator who knows exactly how this ends.

A sharp shudder ripples down your spine, something cold and hot all at once, making your breath stutter as you push forward, harder, faster.

And then—

A door slightly ajar.

Real. Solid. Just beyond the next turn.

Your pulse spikes, a bolt of something terrifying and electric slamming into your chest.

So close.

Your fingers stretch toward it—

And then—nothing.

Your body locks mid-stride, momentum cut off so violently that a strangled noise rips from your throat.

You’re suspended. Weightless. Trapped—before you even had the chance to play your part properly.

Evol. Caleb.

“Fuck—”

The word barely leaves your lips before you hear it—

That slow, deliberate click, click, click.

The rhythm of his boots against the floor is steady, calculated, each step falling with unbearable precision.

Then, another sound—

A slow clap.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Not rushed. Mocking.

The sharp echo bounces off the metal walls, vibrating through your bones, wrapping around your breathless form like invisible chains.

And then—he’s there.

Towering. Casual. Unrushed.

A man who knows he’s already won.

The flicker of artificial light catches against his dark clothing, the crisp lines undisturbed, his violet eyes gleaming with amusement, with hunger, with absolute control.

Caleb presses a thumb beneath your chin, tilting your head up. Not gently.

Firm. Demanding.

His nail digs in slightly, just enough to make your breath hitch, your pulse thrum against his fingers.

“Well, well.” His voice is silk-drenched smugness, smoothed over steel. “Look how far you got. Almost impressive.”

Your lips part slightly, but his eyes are already there. Watching. Measuring.

His grip tightens.

And then—he kisses you.

Slow. Deliberate. Unshaken.

A claiming.

His lips are warm, firm, steady, molding against yours like they’ve done it a thousand times, like they have all the time in the world to do it again. You try to turn away—pretend to resist, just to play your part, just to spite him—but his fingers tighten, keeping you exactly where he wants you.

It should be humiliating.

It isn’t.

Because the fire curling in your stomach, the molten ache pooling between your thighs, tells you exactly what it is instead.

Still, you manage to mumble against his lips, a breathless, mocking sneer—

“Cheater.”

He stills.

Then—he smiles.

A slow, wicked curve of his lips, pressed against yours, against the heat of your open mouth, stealing the breath you don’t have left.

Then—his tongue flicks out.

A slow, deliberate lick along the side of your jaw, dragging up over your cheekbone—hot, wet, obscene. Your breath catches, body tensing at the deliberate, vulgar intimacy of it. But you don’t pull away.

You can’t.

Because the moment he pulls back, his breath skimming your cheek, his voice is a whisper of laughter.

“Run, then.”

His fingers glide along the side of your throat, lingering just long enough to tease, to remind—before he finally lets you go.

“Little rabbit.”

And you do.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, somewhere, Caleb

You run well.

Better than expected.

Your movements are calculated, controlled—too controlled. Every turn you take, every sharp pivot, every burst of speed through the dimly lit corridors carries intention. Strategy.

It’s almost charming, in a way that it shouldn’t be—this clever little game you’ve devised.

A trick. A thinly veiled excuse to give yourself permission.

To turn what you want into something you can bear.

Something he can bear.

Because you both knew—after dinner, after the tension settled into something tangible, something dangerous—that passion? Real passion:

The kind that grips like a vice, that drowns you in it, leaves you gasping, shaking, wrecked beyond recognition—

Would destroy him.

Would destroy you.

Because Caleb doesn’t get to want like that.

Not anymore.

He’s spent years learning to hold himself together with careful stitches of control, seams tight enough to keep from splitting apart.

But this?

This is different.

This isn’t longing.

This isn’t fragile or delicate or human.

This is the hunt.

And he was always going to win.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, somewhere, you

Your breath sharpens, ragged and uneven, each inhale dragging through your lungs like it’s trying to claw its way out. The sound carries, bouncing off the smooth steel walls, a signal, a beacon—leading him straight to you.

Caleb’s breath? Steady. Unshaken.

Measured.

You’re ahead—barely. But it’s slipping. Your legs are burning now, the deep ache spreading, curling in your muscles, warning you that you’re running on the last reserves of your strength.

And he knows it. You see it in the way his violet eyes glint—sharp, already victorious.

“Tsk, look at you.” His voice is teasing, amused, but layered with something darker. Hungrier.

He’s not winded. He’s not struggling.

He’s playing.

“You’re panting already?”

Your teeth grind, but you don’t answer.

You can’t.

But he doesn’t need a response. He sees everything.

The way your shoulders stiffen.

The way your fingers twitch, as if they want to curl into fists.

The way you push harder, push faster, even though you both know you can’t outrun him.

That smug bastard is already enjoying this—far too much. Every quiet chuckle, every barely-there exhale of amusement is proof of it. You have to focus, force yourself not to laugh back, not to let him see just how much you feel it too.

Then—heat.

Close.

Too close.

His body is at your back before your mind can register it, before your instincts can scream at you to move, to do something—but it’s already too late.

His breath ghosts against your ear, warm, deliberate, curling over your skin.

The shock of it jolts through you, a violent shudder ripping down your spine, stealing the next breath from your lungs.

“Going somewhere?”

And then—

He moves.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, somewhere, Caleb

A shallow breath.

Barely there.

A hesitation—small, fleeting, but unmistakable. A fraction of a second where your body betrays you, where exhaustion cuts deeper than instinct, where hope flickers just enough to make you hesitate.

And that’s all he needs.

All he’s been waiting for.

Caleb moves.

A single, fluid motion—effortless, lethal, precise.

He lunges.

Hard. Fast. Unstoppable.

Your body collides with his, mid-stride, the force knocking the air from your lungs. The impact is calculated, deliberate, inescapable—not enough to wound, but enough to break through every last defense you have left.

Enough to take you down.

No mercy.

Just the hunt.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, somewhere, you

He twists at the last second.

The predator’s final kindness—ensuring that when you land, it’s the damp grass that catches you, not the cold, unforgiving steel. But it doesn’t feel like mercy. Not with the weight of him pressing down, solid muscle and overwhelming heat pinning you beneath him.

Your breath stumbles, a sharp inhale snagging in your throat—shock, exhaustion, something else entirely.

And then—you realize.

It’s over.

Caleb looms above, his body a cage around yours. His wrists pin yours effortlessly, his grip firm yet controlled. The air is thick, charged, humming between you as your heartbeat pounds in your ears.

A low chuckle rumbles through his chest, slow and satisfied.

“Gotcha.”

Your stomach tightens, a betrayal of instinct, a sharp coil of something too warm, too dangerous.

Caleb sees it. Caleb feels it. All of it.

The way your chest rises too quickly. The way your thighs press together. The way you shudder, just barely, beneath his touch.

And then—his hands move.

Slow. Deliberate. Knowing.

Fingertips skim beneath your shirt, a featherlight drag over heated skin. A whisper of contact that makes it impossible to keep still.

His palm presses against your stomach, fingertips grazing over your ribs—higher, teasing, possessive.

Then—his hand closes over your breast.

Firm. Rough. Kneading, claiming, taking.

Your back arches before you can stop it, instinct overriding the plan, a sharp breath dragging through your teeth—your body responding before your mind can catch up.

He hums—pleased, indulgent.

“Silly little rabbit,” he muses, the words a slow, wicked purr.

His hips shift against yours—a grind, slow, deliberate, pressing into the heat pooling between your thighs. A sharp, rolling pressure that forces another gasp from your lips. Your body tenses, your fingers twitching, desperate to grasp at anything—to push, to pull, to react.

But you can’t.

Not yet.

Because this is the game you agreed to play.

And prey doesn’t beg for its hunter.

Caleb knows.

He knows how hard you’re fighting this, how tight your control is stretched.

And he revels in it.

Another grind, slower this time, deeper, just enough friction to make you bite back a sound that would give you away.

His breath is hot against your skin, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

“Little rabbit,” he muses, voice rich with mock discipline. “You ran. And now you suffer the consequences.”

A bite. Just enough to sting.

Then—a whisper, low, smug, inevitable.

“Let’s see how well you take them.”

——————————————————————————

The damp grass prickles against your exposed skin.

Cool. A sharp contrast to the unbearable heat curling low in your stomach. A reminder.

Where you are. Who has you.

Caleb’s fingers drift to your jaw, firm but teasing, tracing the delicate line of your throat.

Then—his hand wraps around it.

Not squeezing. Not yet.

Just holding.

Reminding you.

He owns this moment.

He owns you.

Your breath stutters, lips parting slightly as he tilts your head—forcing you to look at him.

And fuck.

His eyes.

Violet, sharp, wickedly pleased—drinking you in, dissecting every little reaction, savoring the way you tremble beneath him.

Caleb hovers, his breath ghosting over your lips, lingering like he wants to ruin you right there. His fingers drift lower, mapping you out like he’s memorized you yet still wants to rediscover every inch.

His hand slides down your stomach, fingers pressing into the soaked fabric between your legs.

A sharp, deliberate pressure.

And you gasp.

Caleb chuckles—low, dark, cruel.

“Dripping. Already.”

The words slide over you, rich with amusement, a slow drag of mockery and indulgence.

Then—he presses harder.

Your hips twitch, breath catching, fire racing through your veins.

His smirk sharpens.

“Tsk, tsk. Such a needy thing. Now—on your knees.”

——————————————————————————

The Maze, somewhere, Caleb

His voice is steel.

A command, absolute.

You obey.

Of course you obey.

Your legs shift beneath you, shaky, raw, your fingers brushing against the grass as you push yourself up—kneeling, waiting, anticipating.

His hands tangle into your hair, tilting your head just enough to see it.

The wicked smirk. The slow, deliberate pull of a zipper.

The sound is sharp, impossible to ignore.

A fresh pulse of heat ripples through you, your thighs pressing together, your lips parting on instinct.

And Caleb?

He notices. Of course he does.

And he loves it.

His cock is heavy, thick, so close yet just out of reach.

Your breath catches. Your gaze flicks downward.

Then back up.

Pleading.

But Caleb only chuckles.

He studies you, drinking in the way you’re already ruined, already so perfectly wrecked for him before he’s even touched you properly.

And then—

“Open.”

You do.

Caleb watches as your lips part, obedient, willing—his. And he smirks.

And the chip stays silent.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, somewhere, you

He doesn’t hesitate.

He pushes deep.

Slow. Unrelenting.

His fingers tighten in your hair, guiding you, controlling you, setting the pace—

Making you take it.

A deep, rough groan rumbles through his chest, his violet eyes locked onto you, watching the way your lips stretch around him, the way your throat swallows, the way your breath hitches with every inch.

“There you go,” he murmurs, voice thick with something dark and indulgent.

His grip flexes, guiding, controlling you to take everything he gives.

Your hands clutch at his thighs, fingers digging in, trying to steady yourself, trying to keep up.

But he’s ruthless.

And he doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re trembling, until you’re gasping, until your body gives out from sheer exhaustion.

Then—he pulls back.

Slow. Cruel.

Your lips are swollen, slick, your breath ragged, wrecked.

And he smirks.

“Good girl.”

A thumb brushes over your lower lip—mocking, almost affectionate.

Then, that same command.

“Now—lie down.”

——————————————————————————

The Maze, somewhere, Caleb

And you do.

You’re gone. Lost beneath him, trembling, unraveling, coming apart with every brutal stroke, every precise drag of his fingers against your clit.

Caleb watches, drinking in every gasp, every sharp, wrecked moan, every stutter of your breath. The Maze hums around you, its silence thick, swallowing the sounds of your ruin.

And then—he stills.

No movement. No pressure.

One hand remains firm at your waist, keeping you down, keeping you exactly where he wants you. The other? Just barely hovering. Close enough for you to feel the heat of his palm—but offering nothing.

He waits.

Watches.

Because he wants to see it.

Wants to see the moment realization sets in, the slow, helpless flicker of need in your eyes.

And there it is.

Your lips part. Trembling.

A breath catches in your throat, your body shifting instinctively, chasing his touch, chasing what only he can give you.

And fuck—

It’s beautiful.

Caleb’s hand is like hot iron, soaked in your slick, branded with your need—steady, unyielding, waiting. A presence that sears, that claims, that lingers. And it doesn’t move.

Not yet.

His voice is a dark murmur, smooth, indulgent.

“Let me see how badly you want it.”

Fuck, he loves it.

Loves the way you beg without words, without pride, with only your body.

Loves how you bend for him. How you break for him.

Loves that, together, you’ve carved out a way for this—for him to have you, for you to take him, for nothing to stand between you.

Not even that godforsaken chip.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, somewhere, anywhere, everywhere, you

“You like this, don’t you?”

Your breath hitches.

You don’t want to say it. You don’t want to give him that satisfaction. Not yet.

But your body?

Your body betrays you. Your hips arch, chasing his next stroke, chasing the unbearable friction of his cock against your clit.

And Caleb?

He laughs.

”Of course you do.”

His hand slides down, gripping your waist with deliberate pressure, holding you still as he sinks in—slow, unhurried, stretching you open, making you feel every inch of him.

Splitting you apart.

Claiming you completely.

And he takes his time—watching, savoring, feeling the way your body trembles around him, adjusting, yielding, helpless beneath his control.

“You were made for this.”

His hands shift, sliding from your thighs to cup your ass. With effortless strength, he lifts your lower body from the ground, tilting your hips just enough to expose more of you to him. He spreads you wider, admiring the sight, savoring the way you tremble beneath his touch.

Another deep thrust. Measured. Designed to ruin.

Your gasp breaks.

He sees your struggle, your hands twitching, desperate to grab onto something, onto him, onto the earth beneath you, onto anything to ground yourself.

“No touching.” The command is sharp, final.

He won’t let you have that control. He can’t let you have that control.

“You take what I give you. Nothing more.”

Then, with effortless force, he flips you over, pressing you down until you’re on your hands and knees, the cool earth beneath your palms, the damp grass tickling your skin.

Exposed. Open. Waiting.

His fingers flex, his grip tightening around your waist, holding you still, making you to take it, to feel every second of your loss.

——————————————————————————

The Maze, somewhere, Caleb

Caleb doesn’t falter, he never slows. Each deep, calculated thrust is authoritative, demanding—designed to remind you exactly who’s in control, to make you feel every second of his dominance.

And then—

The first crack. A sound leaves you—wrecked, helpless, something high and desperate and utterly broken.

His jaw clenches.

Because fuck, that does something to him.

His grip tightens, fingers pressing deep into the softness of your waist, holding you steady as he claims you. One hand slides forward, rough and demanding, cupping your breast, squeezing, pulling you up, arching you back against him. Your spine curves, your head tilting, the heat of his breath against your neck, the weight of his body controlling every movement. His control slipping—

But the chip doesn’t stop him.

His body tightens, his own control slipping, because hearing you break—feeling you break beneath him—

It’s intoxicating.

And he wants more.

So he pushes further.

“Say it.”

You bite your lip. Shake your head. Pathetic.

He wants it broken.

He wants you broken.

So he changes the angle—snapping his hips forward, deeper, harder, exactly where he knows you can’t hold out.

His hand fists in your hair, tugging just enough to keep you exactly where he wants you.

“Say. My. Name.”

A sharp cry rips from your throat.

Another thrust.

Another.

And then—you snap.

The way your body tightens around him, clenching, desperate, pulling him in, refusing to let go.

The way your body shudders beneath him, shaking, convulsing, utterly wrecked.

“Caleb—! Fuck—”

A high, shattered moan spills from your lips. Your muscles tighten, locking around him, gripping him in a way that nearly destroys him.

And fuck, yes.

That’s it.

“That’s it,” he groans, voice wrecked, victorious.

“Let go. Let me have it.”

And you do.

He feels it.

The way you unravel beneath him, wrecked and ruined, shaking with pleasure so raw it sears through you like wildfire.

And it—it destroys him.

Something sharp, something raw, something uncontrollable surges through him.

“Fuck—”

His pace stutters. His fingers dig deeper. His breath shudders.

Until he loses himself completely.

Caleb’s body tenses, wrecked, desperate, utterly gone. His release slams into him with brutal force, tearing through every last shred of control.

A groan—low, raw, helpless.

Because he’s lost in this now.

Lost in you.

And the chip does nothing.

Because this isn’t love.

This is power.

This is control.

This is victory.

And Caleb?

He always wins.

——————————————————————————

The only sound left is your breathing—

Shaky.

Spent.

Completely and utterly ruined.

Caleb watches you, his own breath still uneven, his body still thrumming with the raw, intoxicating high of what just happened. Pleasure lingers in his limbs, warmth sinking deep into his bones.

For the first time in so long—

He feels free.

He leans in, letting the tip of his nose brush along the damp heat of your throat, breathing you in, slow and deep.

Your scent. Your warmth. The proof of his victory.

His lips part slightly as he presses a kiss to your skin, open-mouthed, deliberate, letting his breath ghost against you.

Not a claim.

Not a taunt.

Just a quiet, wordless reward.

And fuck—the way you melt.

The way your body softens, relaxes against him, the way your cheek presses against his chest as if it belongs there—as if you are meant to be here, against him, with him.

Your breath spills over his collarbone, warm, uneven, still trembling from the aftershocks of pleasure.

And he lets you.

He lets you rest.

Lets you take comfort in his warmth, his presence, his touch.

His fingers trail up—slow, careful. Threading into your hair, tilting your head just slightly, enough for his lips to brush against your forehead.

Soft.

Unrushed.

A silent reward for your submission.

Because you are his.

Completely.

Utterly.

And yet—

A dull pressure pulses at the base of his skull. A slow, creeping weight curling into his thoughts, threading into his awareness like a shadow.

It’s not a shutdown.

Not a failure.

Not yet.

But the chip is reacting.

And for the first time, he doesn’t know why.

Not until the thought cuts through him, cold and gutting.

Would this be enough for you?

Would you accept him—if this was all he could ever give you?

If the only way he could hold you, touch you, take you—was by keeping you beneath him, conquered, obedient, controlled?

Or would you still struggle?

Still resist him, not because you didn’t want him—

But because this isn’t what you wanted at all?

What if—even now—you were just enduring this?

What if—even in surrender—you were still waiting for the Caleb you once knew?

The thought tightens something in his chest.

And then—

Your voice.

Soft.

Barely there.

“Caleb, I love you.”

The words slip from your lips so quietly, so unconsciously, that for a moment, he thinks he’s imagined them.

Until—

Until he feels it.

The gentle tug at his chest.

Your fingers. Curling around his dog tag. Holding onto it like an anchor.

His name—whispered like something fragile, something holy.

His body goes rigid.

The weight of those words hangs between you, too heavy, too real.

And suddenly—he is afraid.

Because he doesn’t know which Caleb you’re speaking to.

The one he is now?

Or the one you’re still hoping will come back?

And worse—

Who is the one answering?

His throat tightens. His mind races. The chip sends a warning pulse, static curling at the edges of his thoughts, demanding that he suppress, overwrite, forget—

But he can’t.

Because the truth is burning through him, deeper than any error message, deeper than any system override.

Still, he forces himself to speak, forces himself to answer.

His voice sounds like him—but he doesn’t know if it is.

“I love you too, Pips.”

And fuck—

It hurts.

The pressure behind his eyes intensifies. A tightening grip. An invisible force coiling around his mind, threatening to crush something he can’t afford to lose.

The chip.

It doesn’t like this.

It wants him to ignore it.

To erase it.

To pretend.

But he can’t.

Not now.

Not when everything feels like it’s slipping through his fingers.

This was a victory.

He had you.

Completely.

Utterly.

And yet—

It doesn’t feel like winning.

It feels like losing something he can’t name.

Like holding something too tight, only to realize it’s slipping away.

And suddenly—

The thrill of this loophole feels like a cage all its own.

——————————————————————————

Chapter five

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: So they just wanted to fuq but every rose has its thorn. Whyy does my brain function like this bahhh. I was nervous about posting this, but I hope I balanced the power play, angst, and lust. And: not me listening to Running Up That Hill while writing the smuttiest, dom-iest scene so far in my fanfic scribbles career—Kate’s lyrics are just chef’s kiss for this chapter. And the other; well. It’s predator Caleb. So! On to the next chapter. Okey then, thank you for reading 🫶🏻