windser

[windser]

thinking about being the non-mc, just sylus pretty princess with no real combative experience. because why would you need it when the n109 zone lifeline was practically intertwined with his own. so no you didn't really need to know how to shoot a gun, but that didn't make you curious. you knew about sylus collection. all about his secred closet of toys of mass destruction.

for the longest, that was his thing. tools he utilized to keep you safe. until the thought occured to you, what were you going to do to keep him safe?

even without asking aloud, you could hear sylus dry chuckle tickling your ear. kitten, if i ever went down, any threat to you would have been eliminated before i drew my last breath. which was scarily sweet to hear, except you hated to think about sylus drawing his last anything.

so you decided on a rather peaceful day, to request that it was now your turn to learn how to weld a gun.

lounged back on the couch, legs parted just enough to give you enough grounding to rest back again, sylus appeared to barely acknowledge your request. it was almost too easy to get lost in the way his face was relaxed against the afternoon sun, no doubt pulling lightly at the strings of sleep to off-set his late night activities.

your finger tips were just grazing his slackened lips, when you brought yourself back to your senses to probe him again. this time he gave you a bit more attention, one vermillion eye peering up at you with hinted bemusement.

always asking for more, hm? because at the end of the day, if it let your lips he would procure it. if only after a bit of teasing. this acceptance, didn't come without a longer look of consideration however as his large hands cupped your cheeks to draw you in until your foreheads touched. he stared at you with an indiscriminate look for a long time, almost long enough to think he'd take back his word before he breathed a slow sigh against your lips.

alright, let's sharpen your claws then.

and so after a few indulgent kisses, you managed to eventually nudge him off the couch, fighting his last dregs of delay. the two of you never needed to leave the estate, trailing down to the lower floors where the twins often escaped to practice.

it was your first time really exploring the area and curiousity roused with it. much more than you thought you harbored. to see you curious and animated over your lesson was foreign and it gave him pause him, but he set his jaw and answered your questions.

perhaps sylus had been waiting for you to eventually chicken out. let that blanket of shyness shroud you as you tucked yourself close to his side and asked to be taken back.

but that never came.

instead, you stood there with a sort of reverence on your face when he placed the gun into your hand, watching you handle it carefully, gently loading and unloading it until you could do it without his directions, your hands moving far more deftly than he would have liked.

watching you, sylus admitted to himself that your nervous naivety had started to relax him a little, your soft voice and innocent questions reminding him that any gun you held wouldn’t tarnish you , no matter how or why you shot it.

so he took more command and stood behind you with his chest against your back, guiding your hands into the correct grip and lifting your arms to just where they should be to hit the fresh target he'd set up after removing the old ones littered from the twins' sessions.

he was ready for the kickback from the shot rocked you back into his muscled frame, but you were not as you squealed in half surprise, half glee. he fought a smile, not noticing he was until you turned and shoved his arm, griping that you’d missed after the high of pulling the trigger had worn off.

guiding you the second time was easier for him, both of you less stiff as he slid his arms down yours, his voice low in your ear. urging you to breathe and take your time instead of a ‘point and shoot’, sylus fought the sudden need to press his lips to where your pulse thumped at your neck, instead letting you relax and shoot when you were ready. the edge of the second most inner ring bore a new breach from your well-placed shot, and syus truly grinned at your childish excitement.

but it didn’t take long for a very different kind of feeling to sink its teeth into sylus, and his eyes glazed over at the loosened tendrils of your hair and your flushed cheeks, trailing his gaze up and down you while you littered the flimsy paper target with sharpened aim.

sylus let you empty the gun of bullets and smirked at the empty clicking of the trigger that you continued to pull. glad he’d only taken a few rounds from inventory expecting you to lose interest rather quickly, sylus now wanted your lesson to end for a very different reason, snaking his arms around your waist, assuring you that there’d be plenty more lessons in your future as he gripped your chin and brought your lips to his.

[windser]

bucky

[windser]

[windser]

oh, my clematis

ALIEN STAGE: WIEGE (2025) || dir. vivinos + qmeng

[windser]

They traded outfits 🥺

[windser]

THEY WERE SUPPOSED TO BE IN SCHOOL. HYULUKA WERE SUPPOSED TO BE MARRIED. HYUNWOO WAS SUPPOSED TO BE ALIVE. THEY MAKE ME SICK

[windser]

AN ALNST AU IM GONNA SOBBBB

[windser]

hoot hoot

[windser]

Arcane as Major Arcana Tarot Cards (1/2) thanks @natrose1 for the idea

[windser]

asdfghjkl can you imagine pornstar!caleb???

tw: 18 +, mdi, filming

pornstar!caleb who is an absolute golden retriever behind the scenes. always sneaking a donut when he thinks the director isn’t looking from the catering table, only to get berated; his laugh echoing through the studio

pornstar!caleb who is known first for his broad shoulders and finely crafted abs, and his heady and passionate scenes second

pornstar!caleb who comes up first when anyone searches ‘first-time’, ‘brother’s best friend’ or ‘forbidden love’, etc.

pornstar!caleb who you finally get assigned to after rising in the ranks, your popularity earning you a spot along with the ‘big dogs’

pornstar!caleb who looks at you like you’re someone he’s seen beyond your scattered videos on the web

pornstar!caleb who ends up giving you the goofiest smile when you nervously go for a handshake in the script reading. then proceeds to ruffle your hair when you flush

pornstar!caleb who tells you to ‘relax, i got you’ and ‘let me do the hard work, just keep looking pretty’

pornstar!caleb who shows you what it really means to be in the big leagues when he has you pressed firmly under his weight, the smack of his hips engraining your form into the mattress

pornstar!caleb who makes you come off script and keeps wringing you out for more while leaving you too dumb to remember your lines

pornstar!caleb who all but collapses against you, nose pressed into the sweaty curve of your neck as the director yells cut

pornstar!caleb who’s lips mold a name that’s distinctively not yours while his body shudders through the final waves of his climax

[windser]

i take back everythinggg i said about the event. bc that praedator trap got me thinking. imagine mc not retaining the memories of her childhood, not recalling caleb in the slightest. to her, he's just perses ... a face with a record.

caleb who has been on the retrieval list for months.

caleb who just happens to catch your scent one day.

caleb who lets the LCBI think that their praedator trap lured him in but it was actually you.

caleb who smiles for the first time in years when you enter his interrogation room.

caleb who could never let go of the past, finally has a future within his grasp.

[windser]

pacifist with anger problems

[windser]

Closer

[windser]

tw: caleb x reader x zayne, possessive caleb (isn't this just caleb?), exhibitionism-kinda a/n: sequel to this. giving zayne the opportunity to melt some of that ice.

zayne is disciplined.

always has been.

it’s what sets him apart, what’s always made him different.

he never needed much—not the forced friendships, not the social distractions, not the late-night calls or whispered confessions.

he’s always known his path. it’s clear, it’s clean, and there’s no room for error.

but lately, there’s been a hesitation. a hesitation that lingers in his fingers when he turns the page of his textbook. a hesitation in his breath when he almost steals a glance. a hesitation in his pulse—steady, rhythmic, only to spike in the moments he shouldn’t be paying attention.

this has been going on for weeks now.

at first, it was easy.

caleb was reckless, predictable in the way he tested boundaries, but zayne knew how to maintain the distance. he was just an extra body in the room, his presence a silent blessing that allowed josephine to sleep easier at night, to trust that things were as they should be.

and for a while, they were.

until the first time he looked. really looked.

it was an accident—at least, he told himself it was. a stray movement caught his eye, some peripheral flicker of motion, and before he could stop himself, his gaze followed.

and for a moment—just a breath of a moment—he saw everything.

he saw the way caleb moved, slow and purposeful. the way your breath caught and released in soft, broken exhales. the way your fingers curled into the fabric beneath you, holding on as if you were meant to be held.

caleb had you on the floor this time, both the position and his intensity sure to rub your knees raw. but you never complained, not like this. for all your spite and fire, when caleb had you like this, you were compliant and frankly—his gaze dipped just low enough, catching the way the peak of your breasts rubbed against the flooring—

zayne turned away so fast his vision blurred.

he forced himself back to his work, pen pressed hard enough against the page that the ink bled through.

he thought that would be it.

then it happened again.

this time, he lingered. just a second longer. long enough for his throat to go dry, for the heat to coil low and unbidden, for the sharp realization to sink in that caleb knew he was watching. that you knew.

but neither of you said a word.

and that silence? it ruined him.

it made it worse.

now, he swears he can feel it—them—even when he’s not looking. he can hear the quiet murmurs, the way the air shifts, the barely-there sounds of movement that he’s trained himself to ignore.

but it’s getting harder.

the tension is creeping in, slow and insidious. he catches himself reading the same line in his textbook over and over, unable to absorb a single word. he starts staying later than he needs to. he finds himself hesitating in doorways, taking a moment too long to pack his bag, fingers deliberate as he gathers his things.

he doesn’t know what he’s waiting for.

until one evening, when he arrives ready to slide into the same seat and soak in his own frustrations, caleb—calm, composed, knowing—finally speaks.

"why don’t you come over here?"

zayne’s fingers tighten around the strap of his bag.

caleb tilts his head slightly, watching him like a predator waiting for prey to realize. "no rush to the books, right?"

you don’t say anything, but the look in your eyes is unreadable. open. expectant.

and something cracks in zayne.

a slow, dawning realization that he’s been standing at the edge of something for weeks now—hovering at the precipice, toes curled over the ledge, waiting for an excuse.

caleb just gave him one.

he swallows, pulse threading high, but he doesn’t turn away.

for once, he lets himself want.

"yes," he hears himself say, voice steady but not quite. "i think i will."

zayne takes the first step.

that should be the most glaring sign that something is different. that something in him has shifted, tilted, realigned itself into a shape he no longer recognizes.

he’s not sure what he expected—maybe for caleb to laugh, to pull back, to say just kidding, you can get to work now. maybe for you to hesitate, for you to stiffen in the way people do when something unfamiliar enters sacred ground.

but neither of those things happen.

instead, caleb moves.

not toward zayne, but toward you.

and that’s when he understands.

caleb has no interest in handing anything over. he’s not stepping aside. he’s allowing.

this isn’t zayne’s to claim. this is something to be granted.

he watches caleb, his hands easy, familiar, claiming the territory zayne has never dared to touch. the weight of his presence alone is enough to make the atmosphere shift, a low thrum of tension that curls through the room like a slow-burning fuse.

zayne stays where he is, still standing, still waiting, his fingers curled loose around the strap of his bag. there’s an unspoken invitation in the way caleb’s eyes flick up to meet his. a silent dare.

but not permission.

not yet.

“come closer,” there it is. caleb finally says.

zayne takes a slow breath, his mind curiously blank as he sets his bag down and steps forward.

closer.

close enough to hear the way your breath stutters as caleb’s hands move, mapping out familiar places, as if reminding both of you—this is mine, this is mine, this is mine.

zayne swallows hard, his fingers twitching at his sides. he’s never been shy, never been unsure of himself, but this is different. this isn’t medicine, isn’t a test with the right or wrong answer.

this is trust.

and caleb doesn’t give that easily.

caleb’s hand slides up your thigh, slow and deliberate, before his gaze flicks to zayne, sharp and assessing. he nods once, a silent go on then.

zayne hesitates.

he’s always been a fast learner, but this is new territory.

so he starts small.

a touch, barely there, the backs of his fingers grazing along the curve of your knee. he half expects caleb to stop him immediately, but there’s no interruption.

encouraged, he moves higher to your waist.

caleb shifts then, pressing in, and for a split second, zayne wonders if he’s gone too far—if he’s crossed the invisible line that neither of them has laid out yet.

but instead of pulling him back, caleb’s mouth curves into something unreadable.

"hey now."

zayne stills.

caleb’s grip tightens just slightly, a possessive anchor.

“don't be so timid. you can use your mouth too,” he murmurs, voice low but firm, directive. “but only below the neck.”

and that—that—makes something tighten in zayne’s chest.

because this isn’t freedom.

this is control, measured out in careful allowances, in boundaries that exist not to exclude him, but to remind him exactly where he stands.

he lets out a slow breath, tilting his head just slightly, waiting—waiting—because now he understands that this, too, is a test.

he leans in.

lets himself learn.

a kiss to your shoulder, featherlight. a press of lips against your collarbone, reverent, exploratory.

and caleb allows it.

but never looks away.

zayne isn’t sure when his heartbeat started pounding in his ears. maybe it was when your fingers found his wrist, guiding his hand against the warmth of your skin. smaller hands cupping the curve of his knuckles until his palms reach your chest and you just press so. maybe it was when you let out that first, soft sound—a reaction to him, to something he did.

or maybe it was when caleb made his presence known again.

zayne had almost forgotten he was being watched. almost.

but caleb never really disappears, does he?

even now, his touch is there—ghosting along the back of zayne’s neck, the weight of his hand steady, instructive. not controlling exactly, but not absent either.

instructive.

because zayne is still learning.

and you—you—are encouraging him to misbehave.

it starts small, subtle. the way your breath hitches when his mouth skims a little lower. the way your fingers clutch at his sleeve, anchoring him instead of letting him hesitate.

then your hand slides over his, pressing his palm down, urging him on towards the apex of your thighs.

zayne barely has time to process the way heat pools low in his stomach before caleb’s voice cuts through the haze, sharp and knowing.

“ah-ah.”

zayne freezes.

caleb doesn’t pull him away. not yet. but his grip tightens, just enough to be felt, his voice dropping into something smoother, quieter.

“you’re getting ahead of yourself, sweetheart.

there’s no irritation in his tone, no warning, just the firm, unwavering presence of someone who knows better. zayne hears it often when caleb speaks to you. it's often a consequence of a sharp cry from your lips. a sound so choked, so full as if you'd try to take on something more than your body would allow.

and zayne—still breathless, still so close to losing himself in this—listens.

he swallows hard, his breath shaking as he lifts his head, barely realizing how eager he’d been to follow your lead. how quickly he’d let himself forget who was really in control.

caleb shifts, adjusting his hold on you like a reminder.

“you don’t set the pace,” he murmurs, and though it isn’t directed at you, you shiver at the way he says it.

zayne’s stomach tightens.

but then, caleb exhales.

lets go of the back of his neck.

lets him try again.

so zayne does.

this time, he’s careful. not hesitant, not like before, but mindful. measured.

not moving unless caleb lets him. he's uninterrupted as his fingertips skirt your waistband, unhindered as they slip between to meet the frilly edge of your panties.

he watches for your reactions—how your breath shudders, how your fingers twitch against his wrist. how you still encourage him, still want him, but never try to take control again.

and for the first time, zayne realizes this isn’t just about learning.

this is about trust.

and caleb—possessive, patient, in control—is finally letting him earn it.

and he's oh sosososo careful now, every movement measured, every touch intentional—his fingers ghosting along your mound as your pretty thighs part further for him. he feels the way you respond beneath him, the subtle arch of your spine, the quiet invitation in the way you press into him.

you’re encouraging, but not leading this time.

zayne’s learning.

his lips trail lower, testing the boundaries caleb has set, but never crossing them. he follows the curve of your shoulder, the heat of your skin, the slow, deliberate pace that he knows he should maintain.

but there’s still a hesitance—still an uncertainty in the way his fingers press in, applying just enough friction to smear the wetness you give him, the mess he made.

and then caleb is there.

not stopping him, not pulling him away, but correcting.

a hand at the back of zayne’s neck again, firm but not forceful, fingers pressing just enough to make his pulse stutter.

"faster," caleb murmurs, his voice low, steady. "you can feel that she likes it. she can come like this, don't let her be stubborn."

zayne exhales shakily, twisting his wrist, letting himself listen—to you, to the way your breathing shifts, to the way you melt beneath him in places and tense in others.

he wants.

he’s never wanted like this before.

but more than that—he wants to do it right.

so he lingers, taking his time, making sure his touch is firm and intentional as his thumb strokes your throbbing clit. he’s still waiting, still seeking permission with every motion, and caleb—possessive, patient, watching—lets him have it.

for now.

not just physically, but intimately—close enough to feel the warmth of your breath ghosting across his skin, close enough that every shift of your body sends a slow, sinking weight through his chest. close enough that the heat between you and caleb curls around him, wrapping tight, pulling him deeper into something he doesn’t yet understand.

there’s an electricity in the air, a hum that zayne swears he can feel between his fingers when they brush over your skin. he barely has time to process the way your breath shudders at his touch before caleb’s voice cuts through the haze, low, measured.

"flick your thumb."

zayne obeys.

not because he’s afraid, but because something about caleb’s control, his quiet authority, makes it impossible not to.

so he lets his fingers follow the notes of caleb's commands, reverent strokes. he listens—to the way your body responds, the way your breath stutters, the way your fingers tighten around his forearm like you’re grounding yourself in him.

that alone sends a sharp, new kind of thrill through his chest.

he lets himself move with you, lets himself feel the weight of every breath, the way anticipation coils in your muscles. and you let him. you guide him without leading, letting him explore, letting him earn each reaction, each quiet sound, each shift in the way you press closer.

he wants to touch more. he wants to taste more.

but then your fingers slip over his, fingers intertwining as you raises his touch just high enough to curl against the elastic of your panties, urging him under—just a fraction, just enough to test.

you’ve always been the little trouble maker. wrapped so sinful and sweet in sugar ‘n spice.

then hand at his neck squeezes.

the moment is razor-thin, the tension between them stretched so tight that zayne can feel caleb’s control like a weight against his form.

"ah, ah. i didn’t say you could touch there."

zayne stops.

his body feels like a live wire, his pulse a frantic staccato against his ribs, his skin burning where caleb's fingers press into him.

there’s no irritation in caleb’s voice, no sharpness—just possession, thick and undeniable.

"you wait for me," caleb murmurs, almost amused, almost indulgent. "you don’t just take it."

zayne swallows hard. his breathing is unsteady. his body is tight with restraint, every nerve strung out from the weight of this.

so zayne exhales, shaking his hand away from yours and returning his touch to the cloth barrier. the wet spot is bigger this time, easier to finger as zayne grinds the heel of his palm into it. pressing and rubbing insistently until you squirm and quiver against him.

and when you respond in a way that makes it clear this is right, this is wanted—zayne understands exactly what he’s been missing.

caleb is forever a steady presence, lingering just enough to keep zayne tethered, to remind him not too fast, not too hard, not too much.

and Zayne listens, because there’s no other choice.

he measures every touch, every press of his lips, every movement—watching for your reactions, for the way your body shudders beneath him, for the moment when you finally break.

and then you do.

a soft, wrecked sound slips past your lips, and zayne feels it like a shock through his body. the sharp, unmistakable realization that he brought you to this—that he did this.

his breath stutters. his hands tighten on your waist, grounding himself, trying to push past the tightness coiling in his chest, the heat flooding through him.

it’s too much.

he’s never felt this way before, never been so wrapped up in someone else’s pleasure, in the way it makes his own body react, the way his pulse pounds beneath his skin.

and then—your hands are on him.

just a light touch, a brush of fingers over his belt—offering.

zayne jerks back like he’s been burned.

his breath hitches. his mind blanks.

his body is still thrumming with leftover tension, still tight with heat and want, but the sudden shift—the attention turned to him instead of you—sends a shock of panic through his system.

it’s too fast. too new.

he stumbles back, nearly tripping over himself as he gathers his things, movements frantic, hands shaking.

"i—" his voice is strained, breathless. "i should go."

caleb watches him, gaze unreadable, but doesn’t move to stop him.

you, on the other hand—your expression shatters.

"did i—?" your voice is small, hesitant, the weight of uncertainty creeping into your tone. "did i do something wrong?"

zayne should say something, should reassure you, should tell you that it’s not you, that it’s him—but his throat is too tight, his thoughts too scrambled.

so he doesn’t.

he just shakes his head in a poor excuse for reassurance, mutters a barely-there apology, and bolts.

the door clicks shut behind him, leaving behind only the ghost of his presence—his lingering heat in the air, the tension he couldn’t quite process, the heavy silence in his absence.

your breath stutters, heart hammering against your ribs as the weight of it sinks in.

he left.

and without thinking, you move to follow.

you barely make it to your knees before caleb is there, an arm looping around your waist, pulling you back—firm, unyielding.

"shhh."

his voice is a quiet command, but his hold is stronger than usual, not just guiding, but keeping you still.

you squirm against him, instinctual, the need to fix it clawing at you, but caleb doesn’t let you go. instead, his hand finds your hair, long fingers stroking slowly, deliberately, a steady rhythm meant to calm, to soothe.

"shhh, sweetheart," he murmurs again, voice dipping lower, rich and steady as it settles in your chest, pulling at something deep inside you. "he just needs some time. let him go."

your breath catches, muscles still tense, but caleb doesn’t let up—not until you stop struggling, until the tension in your limbs slowly melts under the slow, hypnotic drag of his fingers through your hair.

"there you go," he breathes, his mouth just at the shell of your ear. "that’s better."

only when he’s sure you’re still does he loosen his hold, his hands settling against you in something softer, no longer restraint but reassurance.

"you didn’t do anything wrong," caleb finally says, voice firm, certain. "zayne’s just… figuring it out."

you exhale shakily, still frowning, still feeling that knot of uncertainty tighten in your stomach. "i shouldn’t have—"

"you overthink," caleb interrupts, cutting you off before you can spiral further. his tone shifts, something teasing in the way his fingers drift to your cheek, warm and grounding as his thumb traces the heat still lingering there. "you used to be just like that. all anxious, all in your head."

his smile turns sharp as he tilts his head, mock-thoughtful. "and now look at you."

the way he says it—now look at you—sends something warm through you, makes your breath catch, because you remember.

you remember the struggle of those early days, of feeling lost in sensation, of thinking too much, hesitating too much, never just feeling.

you remember the way caleb had guided you—patient, unyielding, possessive in his teaching until you learned how to let go.

and now—now you are more receptive, more open, more in tune with the way caleb wants you to be.

the realization flutters in your chest, slow and lingering, as caleb watches it dawn across your face. his smile firms, something smug and knowing, his fingers squeezing lightly against your jaw.

but then—a flicker of something else.

his expression doesn’t change, but his eyes shift—just barely, just for a second—as he casts a glance toward the door.

the one zayne ran through.

the sharp edge of amusement fades into something more thoughtful, more pensive.

because caleb knows.

knows that zayne isn’t gone for good.

knows that running only lasts so long before something pulls you back.

until you draw him back in.

and when zayne comes back?

caleb will be waiting.

[windser]

thinking about the moment in caleb's card 'verified rumors' where he lets you scroll through his text messages (more on that later).

thinking about how he watches you feed into your own possessiveness and obsessiveness as you poke through message after message.

'you were so hot today, caleb! still not single?'

'caleb, why waste time on long distance when i'm right here?'

'party tonite, see you there.'

it was the last one that really tipped you over the edge. the dichotomy of no shame and the taste of a command. even before your scoff, caleb is already mentally shifting his agenda for the day to clear up his night.

so much for movies and snuggles.

"oh, we'll be there alright," you fume, fingers moving at lightning speed against the screen. really, this was a consequence of his own actions.

"but first."

caleb looks up to find you standing over him, your fingers tap dancing across his shoulders before you settle your weight in his lap. regardless of what is said or heard, all caleb knows is the individual in front of him is the most beautiful person he's ever laid eyes on. especially, with that mischievous grin pulling at those lips he can't wait to taste.

"let's give them something to talk about."

consequences be damned indeed.

[windser]

as usual, part of the where the apple falls verse. playing with some more themes and characterization.

the first time you met him, you gave caleb an apple.

you were five years old in josephine’s kitchen, the scent of warm bread and cinnamon wrapping around you like a blanket. the morning light spilled through the windows, turning the wooden floors honey-gold, and dust particles swirled in the air like tiny, invisible stars. you sat cross-legged on the table, a fruit bowl beside you brimming with red apples. their skins gleamed like polished rubies, catching the light in a way that made them seem almost magical.

caleb stood below, watching you, his fingers curled around the edge of the counter like he was bracing himself. he was always like that—restless, like he could never quite settle, like he was waiting for something he couldn’t name. his dark hair fell into his eyes, and he brushed it away with a quick, impatient motion, as if even his own reflection annoyed him.

the apple in your hand was too big, your fingers barely curling around the smooth, round surface. you turned it over, considering its weight, the way it felt cool and firm against your palm. for a moment, you hesitated, then held it out to him.

"here," you said, nudging the fruit toward him. "we can share."

he hesitated. he always hesitated when it came to you, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed. his eyes flicked from the apple to your face, searching for something—permission, maybe, or a sign that this was real.

"you have to take a bite first," you added, your voice soft, almost careful, as if you were offering him something fragile.

caleb took the apple from your hands, his fingers brushing yours for just a moment—a fleeting touch that sent a shiver up your arm. then, he bit into it, the crisp sound of his teeth breaking the skin echoing in the quiet kitchen. his lips curled slightly, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners, as if he had discovered something secret and sweet.

you grinned as you took it back, the apple now marked with the faint impression of his bite. "now we’re friends," you declared, as if the act of sharing had sealed something unspoken between you.

you and caleb grew up tangled in each other’s shadows.

he was the boy next to you at dinner, nudging his fork onto your plate to steal bites when josephine wasn’t looking. he was the hand gripping yours when the power went out, the voice beside you in the dark whispering, don’t be scared. i’m right here. his presence was a constant, as steady as the rhythm of your own heartbeat.

your memories of him are whole, solid, unshaken. but sometimes, when you tell stories, caleb listens with a look you don’t understand—like he’s waiting for something you’ll never say. like there’s something you’ve forgotten.

mostly, though, things between you are steady, predictable. caleb teases you. you roll your eyes. he leans against the kitchen counter, always eating something—an apple, a piece of toast, whatever josephine set out that morning. and when you come downstairs late, rubbing sleep from your eyes, he’s already waiting for you, passing you whatever was in his hands before you even ask.

"you always forget to eat something in the morning," he murmurs, his voice low and familiar, like the hum of a song you’ve known your whole life.

it’s such an easy thing to believe that you don’t question it.

spring was when he was teasing and light, nudging your shoulder with his, stealing your notebook and holding it above your head just to hear you whine. you’d chase him through the house, laughing until your sides hurt, until josephine scolded you both for being too loud. he’d grin at you, unrepentant, and hand the notebook back with a flourish, as if he’d done you a great favor.

"you’re such a jerk," you’d say, but there was no heat in it. you couldn’t stay mad at him, not when his laughter was so infectious, not when his eyes sparkled with mischief.

"only for you," he’d reply, and you’d roll your eyes, pretending not to notice the way his gaze lingered on you a second too long.

summer was when he was bold and reckless, grabbing your wrist and pulling you through the rain because he wanted to see how fast you could run, how much you trusted him. the world blurred around you as you sprinted, your shoes slipping on the wet pavement, your breath coming in sharp gasps. but you didn’t let go of his hand.

you never let go.

when you finally stopped, soaked and breathless, he turned to you, his hair plastered to his forehead, his grin wide and unapologetic.

"told you we’d make it," he said, as if the rain hadn’t been his idea in the first place.

"you’re insane," you replied, but you were laughing, and so was he.

autumn was when he was quiet and brooding, lying on the grass beside you, tossing an apple from hand to hand. the leaves crunched beneath you, and the air was crisp with the promise of change. you’d talk about nothing and everything, your voices soft in the stillness of the afternoon.

sometimes, he’d fall silent, his gaze distant, as if he were somewhere else entirely. you’d nudge him with your elbow, and he’d blink, coming back to himself.

"where do you go?" you asked him once.

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he handed you the apple, his fingers brushing yours. "nowhere important," he said finally, but you weren’t sure you believed him.

winter was when he was at his most unreadable.

the air was sharp and cold, and the world felt quieter, as if holding its breath. caleb would sit by the window, staring out at the snow, his expression still. you’d sit beside him, trying to draw him out, but he’d only shrug or offer a half-hearted joke.

"you think too much," you told him once, watching the way his jaw tensed, the way he stared at you like he was fighting himself.

"and you don’t think enough," he murmured back.

Yyu weren’t sure what he meant.

not then.

you remember when caleb bleeds for you for the first time.

it’s after school, the autumn air crisp and curling around you like ribbons of smoke. you’re walking home when a boy—a mean one, the kind who pulls ponytails and laughs when people trip—steps in front of you, a sneer twisting his face.

"hey," he says, "i heard you—"

you never hear the rest.

because caleb is already there, slamming into him, sending both of them crashing into the dirt. there’s a scuffle—messy, unpracticed—and then caleb is standing, knuckles split, breath uneven. the boy is curled on the ground, groaning.

you should be scared. but you’re not. because caleb turns to you, eyes wild, chest heaving, and the first thing he says is, are you okay?

you nod.

and he smiles, sharp and small, wiping his bloody hand on his jeans. "good," he murmurs, as if nothing else matters.

when you tell josephine what happened, she presses a damp cloth to caleb’s knuckles, sighing. "you can’t keep doing this," she says, her voice heavy with something you don’t yet understand.

caleb just looks at you, and you don’t understand the look in his eyes. not then.

you and caleb sat on the porch, the air thick with the lingering humidity. the stars were still present, a steady backdrop to the quiet between you. caleb was leaning back against the pillar, one leg propped up, his gaze upward. his hands were restless, tapping a rhythm against the wood, as if he were trying to quiet something inside him.

you watched him, the way his jaw tightened and relaxed, the way his eyes seemed to hold something he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say. he’d been quiet all evening, which wasn’t unusual, but there was a weight to his silence tonight that made your chest feel tight.

"you’re doing it again," you said, breaking the stillness.

he glanced at you, his violet eyes catching the faint glow of the porch light. "doing what?"

"thinking too much," you replied, nudging his foot with yours. "what’s going on in that head of yours?"

he didn’t answer right away. instead, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his fingers laced together. when he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost hesitant. "do you ever feel like… like you’re waiting for something?"

you frowned, tilting your head. "like what?"

he shrugged, his gaze dropping to his hands. "i don’t know. like there’s something you’re supposed to do, or say—and the longer you wait, the harder it gets."

you studied him, the way his shoulders tensed, the way his fingers flexed as if he were holding onto something invisible. "maybe you’re overthinking it," you said gently. "maybe you just need to… let it happen."

he looked at you then, his eyes searching yours, and for a moment, you thought he might say something. but then he smiled, small and fleeting, "maybe," he said, his voice soft. "but what if i mess it up? what if i'm not forgiven for it?"

"you don't have to worry about that," you said, your tone firm. "i'll always forgive you."

he didn’t reply. he just turned his gaze back to the horizon, his expression unreadable. you sat there beside him, the silence stretching between you, and wondered why the air felt so heavy, so charged, like the moment before a storm breaks.

the kiss wasn’t supposed to happen like that.

it was after school, the air sticky and thick with the last stretch of summer. he was someone you liked—kind, funny, a boy who made you laugh. you don’t remember who leaned in first. but you remember the press of lips, the way the moment stretched too long and too short all at once.

and you remember caleb’s face when you came home.

josephine had seen it from the kitchen window, but she didn’t say a word. caleb didn’t either. that night, he sat at the dinner table, turning an apple over and over in his hands, rolling it between his fingers without taking a bite. the air in the house felt different—thick, weighted.

"you okay?" you asked him.

he didn’t answer at first. just kept staring at the apple, as if there was something carved into its surface only he could see.

then, finally—

"do you remember," he murmured, "what you told me when we were little?"

you frowned. "about what?"

"the apple," he said. "told me it was mine."

your brow furrowed. "i… don’t think that’s how it happened."

his lips twitched. not quite a smile.

"yeah," he said, voice unreadable. "you never do."

then he sank his teeth into the fruit, the sharp crack of it echoing in the silence.

you wake with a gasp.

your chest is tight, breath coming too fast, too shallow, like you’ve surfaced from something deep and dark and unending. the sheets are warm against your skin, tangled around your legs. there’s a weight beside you.

you turn your head.

caleb is there, asleep, his bare shoulders rising and falling with every breath. the soft glow of the bedside lamp catches the angles of his face, the curl of his fingers where they rest on the mattress—just close enough to touch you, but not quite.

your heart stutters.

it was just a dream.

just a dream.

but the taste of apples lingers on your tongue, and you don’t remember why.

the kitchen is quiet, morning light stretching long and golden across the countertops. you stand in front of the open fridge, staring blankly at its contents, your fingers tapping absently against the handle. you don’t know what you want.

caleb moves behind you, slow and unhurried, and when you close the fridge, he’s already reaching past you, plucking something from the fruit bowl.

an apple.

"here," he murmurs, holding it out to you.

for a second, the world stills. the light catches the curve of the fruit, glossy and red. you swallow.

"you should eat," caleb says, tilting his head. "you always feel better when you eat."

you take it, fingers curling around the smooth surface.

caleb smiles—slow, knowing. then, as if on instinct, he takes another apple for himself, rolling it between his palms.

"you know," he muses, biting into it, "people always blame eve."

you blink at him. "what?"

"for the apple," he says simply, chewing. "for taking the first bite."

the words settle somewhere deep inside you, curling like smoke.

"but," caleb continues, his violet eyes meeting yours, "the snake was the one who told her to do it."

he takes another bite.

the air feels thick.

you hold the apple in your hands, unmoving.

and somewhere, buried deep in your mind, a memory stirs.

the first time he met you, you were crying.

you were five years old, sitting on the kitchen floor, your tiny hands gripping the fabric of your dress as fat tears rolled down your cheeks. you didn’t remember why. you wouldn’t later.

but he did.

he had knelt in front of you, an apple clutched in his hands. it had been too big for your fingers, too round for your grip, so when he held it out to you, he made sure to hold the weight of it as his knuckles brushed against your wrist.

"here," he murmured.

you had sniffled, blinking at him, uncertain. “it’s yours.”

"you can have a bite first," he urged, voice quiet, coaxing.

hesitantly, you did, hands coming up to cup his. and when you let go, he took a bite too.

something settled in him then.

the first piece of something that would never let go.

[windser]

when caleb says ‘it’s okay. you still have me’ when you zone out mid battle