"shh, gege's here," he whispers into your neck as you stare at your shared reflection. he did this often: holding you down on his cock in front of a mirror and forcing you to look at where he disappeared inside you.
this was as close as you could be, he'd remind you. if it were possible to be any closer, he would do it. "look at gege inside you," he mutters. "don't stop looking."
he's quieter than usual; restrained. usually he'd be standing, letting your skin slap together as he fucked up into you. but this time was different.
you were trying on a few pretty things for him, frilly pyjama sets and lacy garters to match. he stood behind you in the small change room, a towering figure watching you in the mirror as you slipped each piece on and off your body carefully. you saw the change in his eyes. gentle, patient, loving appreciation slips into something more predatory and possessive.
and you know him as well as he knows you, so you're expecting what happens next. you know how to be quiet when the switch flips and he tugs you against him and tells you he needs to be closer. you suck and bite on his fingers as an aid as he fucks you, eyes re-focusing on where you join each time he notices you drifting.
"know i should wait... gege can't help it," he breathes into your ear. "this is where i belong, hm? right here, buried in your pretty flower." his fingertips ghost over your clit, then glide up to your belly. he presses his palm flat against you, firm. "feels like i should never leave."
he bites into your shoulder, and you bite down on his fingers in return. "wanna keep you strapped to my chest, warm and safe and full of me always..." he drops a kiss over his bite. "doesn't that sound nice?"
the tiniest little hum escapes your throat, muffled by his fingers. "that's why gege's so much bigger," he whispers. "that's the way it's supposed to be... meant to carry you around with my cock buried deep inside you... never apart..." his hips roll, and he presses you back into him a little harder. "want them all to see where i belong... wanna walk out and show them how perfectly we fit... look at it..."
you are looking. you can't stop. it doesn't matter. he repeats it like it's not enough, like he needs the whole world to see how connect together perfectly. "keep looking... look at you opening up for gege... so pretty... look..."
sitting on the porch, you sigh as strands of wool yarn move between your fingers, metal needles scraping as you finish off another row of the little sweater you're making. afternoon light warms your figure, curled up in the corner on a rocking chair. a homemade blanket covers your legs and growing belly, lavender at your feet swaying in the breeze.
in the distance, you hear the familiar thrum of your husband's pickup truck. and in a matter of moments, you see it, this small, boxy thing growing bigger with every second, tyres stirring up dirt and bonnet shining beneath the sun.
a smile spreads across your lips, excitement tingling in your aching sitting bones. you've been knitting since lunch, trying to finish this sweater off. but your mind has been fuzzy. distracted. but now everything seems to be clearing up as the truck pulls into your driveway.
the driver's side door pops open, and your hubby jumps down, grinning from ear-to-ear like this is the happiest day of his life. the dogs come barking, eager to welcome him home. they encircle his legs, paws tapping on his boots and scratching up his jeans as he gives you a 'one second, honey' look. you giggle quietly, your gaze falling down to the unfinished project in your hands. with a deep breath, you start on the next row, busying yourself for the next minute or so until caleb finally reaches you.
"how's my girl doing today?" he asks, his rough palm brushing back your hair and fingers pulling you in for sweet kiss. grin on grin, you chortle as he draws back.
"good," you say, beaming up at him.
"and how's our little one?" caleb shifts in front of you and crouches between your legs, his hands coming to your covered belly and rubbing it reverently. leaning forward, he kisses your tummy, those gooey, puppy eyes staring right at you, meanwhile.
"also good." after planting another kiss, your husband rises to his feet and pulls the rocking chair next to you even closer. sitting down in it, the dogs soon come bounding over, barking playfully. the older of the pair, comet, has a chewed-up tennis ball in her mouth.
"go get it girls!" caleb exclaims, throwing the saliva-drenched ball towards the grass beside your cosy home. your furry babies scurry off, excited to fetch the ball, while you call back your hubby's attention.
"look. i'm almost done." you hold up the sweater to him. he chuckles, reaching out and feeling the soft wool between his fingertips.
"mhm, what am i looking at, honey?" you pout at him adorably.
"this is the back, silly. i already did the front and the arms, and then once i finish this, i can sew it altogether."
"ah, i see." he leans over the armrests, hand falling back onto your tummy. "the baby's gonna love it."
"you think?" you ask, nerves slipping into your voice. the dogs return, and caleb throws the ball again, watching them sprint toward it with a satisfied smirk.
meanwhile, you continue knitting your row, a little pucker in your brow as you do so. you see, your pregnancy wasn't exactly planned. you and caleb have been married for a few years, you're both financially stable, and you've both grown and matured as people (sort of—cough caleb cough). there couldn't be a better time to start expanding your little family. but admittedly, you've been far more nervous about it than he has.
and he knows. he's been listening to your late-night rants about how terrifying it is to have a baby. from the ways in which your body will change to the responsibility of raising a child. and the entire time, he's been nothing but supportive, always listening and talking things out with you, helping you to see that while it's gonna be a big change, it'll be worth it.
"c'mon, sweetheart," caleb coos, drawing your attention back to this moment. you've finished your row. "the baby's gonna love anything you make, yeah? and they're gonna love you even more." he gently pries your hand away from the unfinished sweater and intertwines your fingers. your wedding bands clash, metal burning hot with the memories of the vows you made to each other. another sigh escapes you, this time, setting your mind at ease.
"really?"
"really," caleb reassures you, bringing his lips to the back of your hand. the dogs hound. "alright, alright." he lets go of your hand reluctantly and ends up throwing the ball so far it might have landed on the next property. "whoopsies." they go running, disappearing into the tree line.
"so how was work today?" you ask, changing the topic as you continue knitting. cay scratches the back of his head, fingers nudging his akubra.
"it was fine. a few new cows were delivered. a bit skinny, but we'll fatten 'em up in no time," he remarks. "you start on dinner yet?"
"no."
"good. i went to the butcher's on the way back. picked us up a couple of steaks. i was thinking about roastin' some veggies to go with 'em tonight." you flinch as caleb's ringtone blares at full volume, harsh and unexpected. "shit, sorry, honey. just a sec." he reefs his phone out of his back pocket and brings it to his ear.
you chuckle quietly as you listen to your neighbour berate caleb about your dogs jumping the fence again.
"yes, yes, i know. and i told you, i'm very sorry, mrs collins. they just love to play. look, i'll be over in a few minutes to pick 'em, okay? it won't happen again." huffing, caleb gets up and adjusts his hat. gazing down at you, the sun illuminates the long day etched into his handsome face.
"won't be long, sweetheart. why don't you head inside? i'll get started on dinner once i'm back." like how he greeted you, he places a tender kiss on your lips before walking away. he's halfway down the steps when you call out to him.
"caleb!" immediately, he whips around, alert like a canine.
"yeah?!" he calls back.
"i love you!" a grin instantly breaks out across his lips.
"i love you, too, honey! head back inside, alright?" you give him a thumbs-up and watch as his figure retreats, long legs carrying him quickly across the ground. for a moment, you sit there and wonder, how did you get so damn lucky?
"THE COLONELS OBSESSION" Your thumb hovers over the screen. Your coffee's gone lukewarm. Jesus, who writes this stuff?
You don't scroll away. Rain keeps drumming that same dull pattern against glass, and your apartment feels too quiet, too empty without Caleb filling it with the weight of his presence. Seven days. He'd said it like he was sorry, standing in your doorway, uniform jacket slung over one arm, violet eyes doing that thing where they searched your face for any trace of disappointment.
The story keeps bleeding down your screen. Cheap. But your breath catches anyway when you get to the part about fisting hands in hair. Because Caleb does that. Not rough, not at first, just absent. Like he forgets himself. Like touching you is oxygen and he keeps checking you're still there, still breathing with him.
You move a bit, knees drawn up, and your phone casts this blue glow that makes your apartment look like it's underwater.
The narrator's voice loops in your head, like a low murmur selling something manufactured. But there's a grain of something true buried in that cheap novel, something about watching someone unravel for you alone. Someone so obsessed they would kill for you.
Caleb in the kitchen at 3 AM, still in uniform, peeling an apple with surgical precision while he explained why he'd had to break a man's fingers for getting too close to your door. The apple skin curling in one unbroken spiral. His hands steady as stone.
You exit the tab. Open it again. Your battery's at 12% and it's 5:03 am. You should get a bit more sleep. But the word "sleep" feels like a foreign concept. How are you supposed to sleep in a bed that smells like him? On a pillow that bears the impression of his head, the way his hair tickles your cheek in the morning? How can you sleep when he's out there, drowning in a sea of stars and secrets?
You blink hard, shaking your head. This is all so...filthy. Like a bad porno. But your face feels hot, and you can't look away. Can't stop reading. Because it's not just the dirty words on the page anymore.
It's him. Caleb. In your mind, you see him there, violet eyes darkening to indigo. Strong hands fisting in your hair, not too rough, not yet, but with tension coiled in those fingers. A tension you've felt before.
You remember the sound he makes when you take him deep inside your mouth—like the female lead in this novel just did —a groan, but low and rough, almost a growl. Like it hurts him, like it's too much.
You read the line twice. Three times. Your mouth's gone dry despite the coffee.
Chapter 12 describes the Colonel pinning wrists to wall and your stomach turns over slow, inevitable. Because he's done that too. Not in some staged choreography, but coming home blood dry and shaking, his whole body humming at some frequency that made the air taste metallic. Finding you in the kitchen. No words, just his forehead dropping to yours, his hands finding your hips with too much pressure but never enough. I saw something today. I need— and his mouth cutting off whatever he'd been about to confess.
The story keeps going.
But your mind's elsewhere. Caleb's weight pinning you to the mattress last Tuesday, his real hand, warm and calloused, tangled in your hair while the cybernetic one braced against the headboard. The way his breath hitched when his rank slipped out by accident, Colonel—and how his hips stuttered, his thumb finding your chin, tilting your head back.
Careful, you can't say that out loud. Voice scraped raw. Maybe he'd been thinking of the ears listening in the dark, the eyes watching from the shadows. Maybe he'd been warning you, and himself, of the lines that couldn't be uncrossed once they were stepped over.
You swallow, trying to ignore the ache building between your legs. The story's words echo in your head, filthy and vivid. Caleb in his uniform, hands fisted in your hair, his hips rocking forward, his thick cock pressing against your tongue—
Taking a shuddering breath you try to push away your dirty thoughts. There's work to do, a case to solve, and you can't afford to lose yourself in fantasy, no matter how good. Caleb would want you focused, sharp, at the top of your game.
You stand, robe falling open to reveal your bare thighs, the cool air a shock against the hot heat of your skin. You need a cold shower. Something to keep your mind occupied until you can see him again. Until you can taste him, touch him, feel him.
Stop. You close your eyes, willing your heart rate to slow. Counting backwards from ten. Caleb's not here. He's out there, somewhere in the inky black of space, battling God knows what, risking God knows what. And he's doing it for you. Because of you.
You take another deep breath and head for the bathroom, determined to wash away the lingering heat of your lust and start your day. Tonight, you'll sleep alone again. Tonight, you'll dream of him again. 3 more days until you see him again.
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The cursor blinks on your screen. You've uploaded twelve files. Thirteen. 12 spreadsheet and a mission briefing.
Your finger hovers over your shared folder icon. The story's there. It's the same folder where you keep your joint grocery lists, your travel itineraries, and the occasional sweet note to each other.
He'll think it's deliberate. He'll think I left it for him.
You delete it. Watch it vanish. The folder looks the same—bananas, milk, that photo from the carnival—but you feel the ghost of it, data traces, digital residue. Nothing's ever really gone.
Your phone stays silent on the desk. No vibration. No CALEB CALLING switching mid ring to his face, a grainy photo where he's squinting against too bright sun, mock saluting the camera.
"He's busy," you say aloud, and your voice sounds thin, unconvinced. If he had seen it, he would have definitely called by now. Life answers with its usual hum, refrigerator, traffic four floors down, rain that's started again without you noticing.
You wonder what he's doing right now. Is he thinking about you too? Does he miss you as much as you miss him? You get a sudden urge to call him, to hear his voice, but you know he's busy. He has important work to do.
Instead, you close your eyes, trying to picture his face. His strong jaw, his eyes, the way his hair falls across his forehead when he's concentrating. The memory makes your heart ache with longing.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of meetings and deadlines, your mind only half focused on your work.
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You stumble through your front door, arms laden down with heavy plastic bags cutting into your fingers. The apartment's dark, shadows stretching out to swallow you whole as you kick the door shut behind you.
"Shit," you hiss under your breath, juggling the bags to flick on the kitchen lights.
"I should've just moved the damn file," you mutter, dumping a jar of sauce on the shelf. "Now I'll never find out how that story ends."
When you finish putting away the last of the frozen pizzas, you pick up your phone. Your fingers hover over Caleb's contact information for a moment before you press the call button, bringing the phone to your ear.
You nearly drop the phone in shock when you hear the loud, familiar ringtone echo through your darkened living room. The screen lights up with his name, still ringing, still ringing, while the real thing sits there in the dark like a goddamn ghost.
He doesn’t move. Just watches you from the armchair, one ankle propped on the opposite knee. He's wearing his uniform, a couple of buttons of his shirt undone . His fingers tap once against the armrest—thunk—like he’s counting the seconds until you speak.
You swallow. The air smells like rain and gun oil.
“You’re not at work” you say, stupidly.
His lips twitch. Not quite a smile. “No.”
The phone stops ringing. The silence that follows is worse.
He tilts his head, just slightly. The movement’s too controlled, too precise, like he’s holding himself back from something.
You open your mouth. Close it.
His thumb presses against his lower lip "You were talking to yourself about a story?"
The blood drains from your face.
He stands. One step. Two. You don't move, until you feel his fingers brushing your wrist before curling around it, gentle, but unmistakably there. “The one you deleted”
It’s not a question.
You should lie. You should say what story? You should...
“Yeah,” you breathe.
His grip tightens. Just a fraction. “Why?”
Because I was afraid you’d think I wanted someone else. Because I was afraid you’d see it and laugh. Because I was afraid you’d see it and not laugh.
You don’t say any of that.
His thumb traces the inside of your wrist, slow circles that make your pulse jump. “You know what I think?”
You shake your head.
He leans in. His breath is warm against your ear. “I think you wanted me to see it.”
Your knees nearly give out.
His free hand slides up your back, fingers tangling in your hair. “I think you wanted me to know.”
The story’s words flash behind your eyes—Colonel, I need you—and suddenly, you’re not sure which is worse, him knowing, or him guessing.
"I read it," he says softly. Too softly. "I read every filthy word. And I thought..." His other hand finds your hip "I thought to myself, what a naughty little thing my Pipsqueak is. Leaving a story like that for me to find."
His mouth is at your throat, lips brushing your pulse point "Did you mean for me to see it? Did you want me to know what dirty thoughts my girl has about me? About my uniform?"
"Caleb, I—"
He catches your jaw, thumb digging into the hinge, forcing your mouth shut mid apology.
"Colonel," he corrects, and the word lands different in his mouth than yours. In the story it was theater, a script. Here it's his voice gone thin and strange, stripped of the brightness he uses in grocery stores, in morning light. "Say it."
Your throat clicks when you swallow. "Colonel, I didn't want you to think—"
"What?" His head tilts, birdlike, predatory. "That you were thinking about me? That you were alone in this apartment, needing something you can't name?"
The hand on your jaw slides down, thumb pressing hard beneath your chin. He's breathing fast too, you realize. The mock calm is cracking around the edges.
"Look at me."
You do. And then, you don't mean to, your eyes just slip, dragged down by some magnetic pull you can't control, and...
"Oh."
It's not a word, just air leaving your lungs wrong.
His zipper is half undone and that outline. Jesus. The story had used words like proud and thick, but this...this is him. The fabric straining. The shape of the head pushing against cotton, darkened where he's already leaking. You can see the ridge of his vein through the thin material.
Your mouth waters. Shameful.
Caleb watches your face. watches your eyes land where they shouldn't. watches the way your lips part. He inhales, sharp. "Is that what you want?"
Your tongue darts out, wetting your lips. A reflex. A betrayal.
The bulge in his pants flexes as he shifts, his thumb pushing your chin up, tilting your face to his. "Because you're looking at it like you want to put your mouth on it."
Your shirt suddenly feels too tight. The fabric drags against you with every breath, friction where there shouldn't be, and you realize with distant embarrassment that your nipples have gone hard against the cotton.
"Colonel," you manage, and your voice comes out wrecked, nothing like the story's breathy whispers. You sound like you've been running. Like something's chasing you. "Your...your pants."
He looks down at himself like he's forgotten. Like his own hard on is an inconvenience, a tactical distraction. When his eyes lift back to yours, something's shifted.
"Did the story do this?" you ask, but it comes out like an accusation. Like you're blaming him. "Did it make you—"
"Kneel."
The word hits your sternum like a palm strike. You go down hard, the cold floor biting into your skin. You're below, looking up, neck craned back.
His hand finds your hair again.
"Respect," he says, but his voice cracks on the second syllable. "Show some respect to the Farspace Fleet Colonel."
You open your mouth to apologize but the words dissolve when you see it up close, the damp spot is darker now, a small circle of moisture that tells you exactly how much he’s been thinking about this too.
"Forgive me," you whisper, the words catching on the dry heat of your throat. "I didn't mean...to be disrespectful."
You're looking up at him through your lashes, trying to find that innocent girl in the story look, but your heart is hammering so hard against your ribs it feels like it might bruise. You're playing a part, but the part is starting to feel a lot too real. "Tell me how to make it up to you," you add, your voice dropping to a low unsteady thing. "How can I serve you, Colonel?"
Caleb doesn't answer with words. He just looks up at the ceiling, his neck veins standing out like cords, his jaw tight enough to crack bone.
Then, he moves.
There’s no grace. It’s a sudden, blunt motion. His hands grab the waistband of his pants and shoves them down. Not gently. He's peeling the fabric away from his skin like he’s tearing off a second skin. His boxers follow, a frantic, messy slide of cotton over hips.
And then he's there.
He's massive, the head a deep, angry pink, slick and swollen. He looks heavy. He looks real.
You don't think. If you think, you'll stop. If you think, you'll realize how crazy this is.
So you lunge forward.
Your tongue darts out in a desperate, instinctive reflex, catching the bead of precum at the very tip. It’s hot and salty. It’s the taste of him.
You don't wait for permission. You can't. You part your lips, your mouth opening wide, and you take him. He's big enough to stretch the skin around your lips, filling the space in your mouth until you're forced to tilt your head back just to accommodate the thick girth of him.
A groan rips from his throat as you slide down his length, he smells like cedar and the sharp, musky scent of a man on the verge of losing his mind.
His fingers tangle in your hair when you force yourself to take more, to sink deeper until your eyes water.
Then, the world jerks.
He yanks your head back so sharply you let out a muffled gasp, pulling you off him. A silver thread of saliva stretches from your bottom lip to the swollen head of his cock, shimmering in the dim light before it snaps, splattering against your chin.
You’re dazed, your eyes watering, and then you see his face. He isn't smiling. He looks dangerous.
"Who told you that you could do that?" his voice drops into that low monotone edge of madness. His hand clamps onto your hair, forcing your chin up, forcing you to keep looking at him. "Who asked you could take charge?"
He leans down, thumb pressing against your bottom lip, smearing the moisture you just made.
"Apologize," he commands "Apologize for being so greedy. For forgetting your place."
He pushes the thumb deeper, forcing your mouth open. You don't even even think to be offended. You just want to please him. You part your lips, your tongue curling around his finger, swirling around it while looking up at him with a gaze that isn't just submissive, it's a dare. A quiet, shimmering challenge that says, Is this enough to break you?
Your free hand wanders. It's a risk, touching him without permission, but you can't resist the chance to feel him pulsing in your hand, to remind yourself of how much you've affected him. You wrap your palm around the base, squeezing just enough to feel the frantic thrum of his heartbeat beneath the skin. You stroke him, a slow, teasing drag of your hand that makes the muscles in his thighs twitch.
He makes a sound, a low vibration that starts deep in his chest and ends in a growl.
Before you can even gasp, his hands are under your armpits. He hauls you up with a sudden, terrifying strength and carries you toward the couch. He doesn't set you down, he drops you onto his lap, forcing you to straddle his hips.
The impact is electric. Your soaked panties, damp and clinging, are crushed directly against the naked, throbbing heat of him. The friction is sudden and blunt, a jolt of wet, heavy pressure that makes your spine arch and a small, broken sound escape your throat.
He settles back into the cushions, his hands gripping your waist like he’s afraid you’ll bolt.
"The uniform stays on"
"Yes, please," you whisper, the words stumbling out of you, breathless and undone.
A sharp, almost cruel tug at the corner of his mouth sends a jolt of pure want down your spine. He looks amused, but it’s the kind of amusement a predator feels when the prey finally stops running.
"Oh, you misunderstood, Princess," he murmurs, his voice dropping into a register so low you feel it in your marrow. "I meant your uniform stays on."
His hands slide down, abandoning your waist to seize your ass under your skirt. His fingers sink into the flesh, squeezing, forcing a small, startled gasp from your lips. Then, he grinds. He moves his hips in a slow, agonizingly deliberate roll, forcing his hard cock against the damp heat of your panties.
"Mine, well..." He leans in, his lips brushing your lobe, a ghost of a touch. "Mine is staying on too but I've always wanted to fuck you in your Hunter gear. To see you looking so professional while you cum for me"
The confession is filthy and it makes your stomach flip. Before you can fully process the words he hooks his fingers into the lace of your panties and yanks them to the side with a single, impatient tug.
The air hits your wetness for just a split second.
He doesn't tease you with a slow entry. He thrusts. One heavy, singular motion that drives the fat head of his cock past your folds and buries himself to the hilt.
"Ahhh, fuck!"
You can’t even scream, your mouth just hangs open, your back arching in a desperate, involuntary curve as your walls clench around him in spasms of shock. He feels massive, too big, too much, filling every empty inch of you until you feel heavy with him.
"God, you're always so fucking tight," he rasps, his voice breaking. He’s panting now, his forehead dropping to rest against your shoulder as he fights for air. His fingers dig into the meat of your hips, thumbs hooking into your skin to spread you wider, anchoring you so he can begin to move.
He pulls back just enough to create a sliver of space, then drives back in, a shallow rhythm that makes your vision blur. He leans in, his lips a hair's breadth from yours, his eyes dark with a terrifying, beautiful obsession.
"You want to know the rest of the story, baby?" he whispers before catching your bottom lip between his teeth. "I'll show you. I'll show you exactly how it ends."
He doesn't move, he attacks. His arms wrap around your waist, his hands locking behind your back to crush you against the unyielding wall of his chest. The rhythm is frantic, leaving you breathless. Every time he slams upward, you're lifted, the head of his dick bruising your cervix before sliding back down to drag against your walls.
There are no soft kisses. Instead, every time you gasp for air, he catches the sound with his mouth, his lips pressing against yours to inhale your breath. His eyes never leave yours, they burn with a hunger that feels less like love and more like an obsession.
The room disappears. The only things left in the universe are the wet, rhythmic slap of his pelvis hitting your skin, the groan of the couch springs, and the violent thud of your heart against your ribs.
He’s not being careful. He’s not trying to be gentle. He’s grinding his pelvis upward with every surge, hunting for that one spot deep inside you that makes your whole body shudder. The sensation is a white hot, overwhelming pressure, pulling you closer and closer to the edge of a cliff you aren't sure you're ready to fall from.
"Let... go," he grunts.
It’s not a plea. It’s a command, delivered with the cold, unshakable authority of a man who spends his time commanding fleets. His hands move, his grip tightening on your hip bones until it’s almost painful, anchoring you in place so he can drive into you with even more ferocity.
Your body finally breaks. The tension that’s been coiling in your gut snaps like a high tension wire, and you lose all semblance of control. Your walls clamping down on him in a series of rhythmic spasms that make your vision white out. A jagged, broken cry tears from your throat when your orgasm hits, hips bucking erratically against his in a needy attempt to find more of the friction that’s destroying you.
He doesn't let you drift. He keeps slamming into you with a relentless rhythm, forcing you to take every inch of him even as your muscles scream and twitch around him.
"That's it," he grunts, his voice wrecked "Fuck... you're perfect. You were made for this. Made just for me.".
With a few last, violent thrusts, Caleb hits his limit. He drives himself into you one last time and his entire body turns to stone. You watch, dazed and breathless, as his face contorts. The composed Colonel is gone, replaced by a man stripped bare by pure sensation. His eyes squeeze shut, lashes casting long shadows against his cheekbones, and a loud groan rumbles from the depths of his lungs. His neck tendons stand out like taut cords and a single bead of sweat tracks down the line of his throat, catching the light as it slides toward the silver glint of his dogtag.
When the frantic pounding of your hearts begins to slow, a dizzy laugh bubbles up in your throat, a sound of pure happiness.
The sound makes him react instantly. He pulls back just enough to look at you, the predatory intensity in his eyes softening into something wicked and bright. A slow, lopsided grin spreads across his face, and he leans in, his nose brushing yours.
"Not done yet," he whispers against your lips "Ready for round two, my insatiable little hunter?"
Me, tears streaming down my face, sobbing, as I stare at the stars: it’s just so beautiful
The medieval peasant I went back in time to give a bag of Doritos to, concerned: what terrible and powerful sorcerers they must have in your age, to be able to veil the vault of heaven itself from view, as you say
Me, sniffling: I didn’t realize, I can’t, it’s so much, I, I… are the chips good, at least?
Medieval peasant, trying to make me feel better: they’re… magical, strange traveler
missionary, cowgirl, reverse cowgirl, doggy, backwards, sideways, outside, in the train, on a plane, on the bed, on the couch, bent over the kitchen counter, by the fireplace, against the wall, in the shower, on the floor, in the basement, against the window
If I ever get reported on here cause some clown feels upset over me liking and supporting Caleb's original trope then I will be fucking free from this hell of a fandom
caleb and nonMC!reader in an loveless arranged marriage, where he's secretly in hopeless love with her
warnings. angst fest, eventual fluff, failing marriages, misunderstandings, suggestive content, jealousy, stalking/following, caleb getting rejected, reader in denial, feelings are hard
preview. "Why wouldn't I be romantic? I'm your husband." He's been doing that lately--dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they're nothing. Somehow always when you're least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he's either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he's doing. You're willing to bet on the latter.
wc. 7.4k
Your husband does not love you. He doesn’t love anyone except for one, and it is not you.
You used to like romance. You’d fantasize about who your beloved forever would be in your room, kicking your feet childishly at the thought of someone loving you so purely. So innocently. You wondered what kind of person they’d be, what kinds of foods they’d like, what their family is like. You wondered which holiday would be their favorite, whether they’d want children, whether they’d have a time-consuming job. But really, none of it mattered, because you only wanted someone by your side.
So when you were told you’d be put into an arranged marriage, you tried to be hopeful. An embarrassing, pathetic hope that maybe this man could love you the way men love in books and movies if you tried hard enough.
Caleb Xia is not a loving person. You realized this the moment he stepped into the room with cold, lifeless eyes that seemed to stare straight through you as if the wall was worth more than your presence. He’d smiled, but it felt stiff. Awkward. But you’re sure yours was the same.
Still, his eyes were beautiful. Your hope flickered like a small stubborn flame in your chest that you wanted to guard against the blizzard. The marriage was simple. You showed up to the courthouse in a knee-length white dress, constantly adjusting at the pearls around your neck anxiously while he signed the papers. Once he was done, he’d simply slid it over to you, evidently avoiding your eyes.
“Are you sure?” you’d asked meekly, as if speaking any louder than a whisper would shatter your heart. You weren’t sure if you were asking him or yourself. Not that it mattered, much.
He spared you a soft smile. Pity, maybe, with how his eyes remained empty, but you took it anyway.
A starved man does not beg for more. The flame remained.
The only reason he married you was because MC had gotten married to another childhood friend of theirs. When he mentioned it, you thought nothing of it at first. But when the only photo he’d put up throughout your entire house was one of him and her as children, while your awkwardly situated courthouse picture sat beside it, you knew. He didn’t stop to stare at your photo, ever. Not any of the photos. Only hers.
The final blow to the puny flame remaining in your heart was when you’d finally initiated physical contact. To perform the marital duty, he’d hovered above you in just his pants while you stared up at him in your thin pajamas that did little to hide what was beneath it. There was no setting the mood. The air was cold, the room dull because only your half had any semblance of effort that had gone into decorating it. When he kissed you, it felt more like his lips were simply touching yours gently. Almost tapping it.
It felt like nothing.
This was not romantic at all.
“Are you okay? Is this okay?” he asked, pulling back with a furrow in his brows—probably because you were lying lifelessly while holding your breath. You wondered how he could ask something so softly when his eyes remained so muted. Maybe not softly. Maybe just quiet.
“It’s okay.” You wanted to curl up and go to sleep, but he was the only semblance of warmth in the freezing room.
But when his hand slid up your shirt, resting atop of your stomach, you stopped breathing again. He stopped as well. Your gazes met silently, and for a moment, the world seemed to stop. A dull, slow stop. And then suddenly, he was off you, clambering to pull his shirt back on as you sat up in confusion, eyes wide.
“I can’t,” he muttered. “I’m sorry.”
The flame went out.
Were you really so distasteful? So disgusting that he didn’t want to lay his hands on his own wife? Or was it that you were just too different from her? Should you be offended? Are you even offended? Relieved? Hurt?
Does it even matter?
Once you were sure he’s gone, you cried yourself to sleep.
The next few years are a blur that you wish had somehow gone even faster. The days are a bore. He’s away for weeks—maybe even months—at a time. In those periods of time, the house feels like a maze not meant for only one person. At the same time, maybe it’s better he’s away.
Caleb Xia is not a mean person. On paper, he’s a decent husband. He cleans, cooks, and never complains if you ask him to do something. He smiles, nods, and goes on his way. Yet, it feels more like a vaguely close roommate than a husband. The two of you eat in silence, watch TV in silence, and even go to bed in different rooms. You suppose you can’t complain—it’s not like you put in much effort to get to know him well anyway.
The only thing he does that even comes close to romance is bringing you flowers. You’d told him once that you wished the house had space for a garden to plant them, and he’d brought you a bouquet later that week. Since then, he brings them every few weeks routinely. They appear in the vase beside the couch as if they’ve just magically appeared.
They’re pretty, you think.
Resentment builds, slowly but surely, probably on both ends as in most marriages. This kind of life is killing you inside. This lonely, aimless life in a house that makes you feel like you’re the only person in the world, in a bed that feels too large.
“I want to work,” you say one day, picking at your food blankly. “I have an interview tomorrow, so I won’t be here for most of the day from now on if I get it.”
A fork clatters from across the table. “What? Why?”
You don’t necessarily have to work given Caleb’s plentiful paycheck, but you want to anyway because you can’t stand being in that gigantic house all by yourself. But of course, how could you tell this to the man in front of you? The man you don’t even know the favorite color of?
“It’s a regular office job.”
“I didn’t ask what it was,” he blurts, eyes narrowing in concern. “I’m asking why? Do I not give you enough money? You know you have access to everything on the card, right?”
You shrug. “It’s not about the money…I just think I need something to do throughout the day.”
“What about picking up another hobby?”
“I’ve exhausted most of them.”
“Then traveling?”
“By myself?” you frown. “It’s not like you’re ever here.”
You’re not sure why the words slip through your teeth, but they do, and the disdain is apparent. He seems surprised at first, blinking, before his shoulder slump again and the corners of his lips twitch downward. For some reason, it makes you feel—good? Alive, more so. So you keep talking. “You’re always working. You even missed my friend’s wedding after I told her we’d be there.”
He shoots back immediately, brows tight. “That was a special case—it was an emergency.”
“That’s fine,” you chew slowly on your food. “But I don’t want to wait around all day for you to get back.”
“You shouldn’t work if you don’t have to. I make more than enough.”
“Again, not the point.”
His lips tighten, pursing. “What will your family think if they hear that I’m making you work after I told them that I’d take care of you?”
You snort. “Is this what you call ‘taking care of’?”
Immediately, you can tell that you’ve struck a nerve. And for some reason, it feels good again. Like you’re alive, again. Maybe you just like pissing him off. His expression shifts momentarily to something you can’t recognize before it settles disapprovingly and silence befalls the both of you. You like when he doesn’t have that stupid smile he always has. The fake, lifeless smile he’d given you when you first met. You’d rather he just be upset, just like this. He looks like he wants to say something, but then shuts his mouth, swallowing the lump in his throat.
His phone rings, slicing the tension in the air like a knife. Caleb glances at the caller ID for a split second before he’s already on his feet, pacing to the sink to put his plates away in a hurry. “I’m sorry, I need to take this. Let me know how the interview goes..”
You stare at your plate, listening to his feet pad around in a hurry. “Is it MC?”
He whips his head around. “What?”
You stand from your seat to dump your food into the sink, ignoring the slight clench in your chest. He’s always been this way. Jumping at any opportunity to be useful to her, while he leaves everyone else in the dust. “Nevermind. Go.”
Once you hear the front door shut, you slump into the couch face first, hoping it swallows you whole before he comes back. This has to be some sort of humiliation ritual. Perhaps you committed a grave sin in your past life, because you’re not sure what you could’ve possibly done to warrant such a feeling. The sunset seeps through the window planes and hits half of your face, bathing you in a warmth that had been missing from the rest of the house. The heat makes you sleepy, and you soon find your eyelids drooping shut, gazing lazily at a photo of the two of you on the coffee table. You don’t remember when it was taken, but in it, you genuinely look like you’re almost enjoying yourself. You can’t tell with him, though. You can never really tell.
“Stupid Xia,” you mutter as you fall deep into slumber.
When you awake again, the sun has fully set. There’s a blanket draped over you and when you blink away the blots in your vision, you’re met face to face with a fresh vase of flowers on the coffee table. They smell nice.
Damn it.
Sometimes, you wish he was just an asshole.
You learn about him through the photo albums he has stashed away in the attic. It’s not like you were looking for them. You’d only been cleaning when they managed to topple right into your hands, and since he always says whatever’s his is yours, you figure you might as well satisfy your curiosity. There’s less than you expected, unfortunately. Most photos are taken by him, but there’s a few in between where he’s the subject. Him at his birthday party, his graduation ceremony, him packing for college, and the day he left for the DAA.
It’s odd. You forget he was a normal teenager at one point, and not a high ranking colonel.
The pictures are through his eyes. Before you can stop, you find yourself becoming engrossed in lacing the photos together into some semblance of a story in your head. You see his childhood home and the model planes he enjoys building. His outings with MC and his grandmother. His last minute halloween costumes. Him and his friends carrying out a prank on someone. His studies. His likes. His dislikes.
Caleb Xia is a charming person. If you hadn’t met the way you did, you think you might’ve liked him a little more.
When you ask him a question regarding one of the photos at dinner, he nearly chokes on his food. You quirk a brow in response. “Was I not supposed to see them?”
“No, it’s fine if you look…” he mumbles, taking a sip of water to gather himself. You squint—are his ears pink? You didn’t know he was capable of doing something kinda adorable. “It’s just a little embarrassing.”
“Like the picture of your airplane swim trunks from when you were a kid–”
He coughs again, and you snicker.
You think he’s tolerable—just a bit.
Weeks pass. Life gets a little easier with your job and more to do—it might even be a bit fun. With your new friends at your workplace and a new sense of accomplishment, the less you stress about your loveless marriage and the more you appreciate what you have. Your interactions with Caleb become less forced. Not because you’ve somehow managed to miraculously understand how his brain functions, but because you put less weight on what you say. It’s hard to see someone as intimidating when you’ve seen a photo of them in a stupid halloween costume. He seems to notice the change too.
[Caleb Xia]: I got us fried chicken for dinner. Don’t be too late so it doesn’t get cold :)
Your mouth waters. It’s nice, almost. Emphasis on the almost.
Outside, the evening chill hits your cheeks, sharp enough to wake you up and wrap your jacket tighter around yourself. The street is busy but not crowded, as the sun has just set. A couple laughs too loudly across the road. Somewhere, a bus exhales.
You start down your usual route.
At first, it’s nothing. Just footsteps. Not out of place. People exist. People walk. People go home.
But something’s off. Your gut insists on it, and it’s hard to ignore.
You slow slightly, just enough to be subtle. The footsteps slow too.
Your fingers tighten around your bag.
Coincidence, surely.
You don’t turn around, yet. Turning means you have to see something and acknowledge that it’s real. Instead, you adjust your pace again. Faster this time.
The footsteps quicken, dropping your heart to your stomach.
Your eyes dart around you anxiously. It’s dark. Streetlamps are guiding your path home, and though the neighborhood is nice, it’s empty. Well, except for you and the footsteps that seemingly sound like they’re getting ever so closer every few seconds. You throat feels dry.
Phone. You need to tell someone. Even if you’re wrong—even if it’s just a hunch.
[You]: Still there?
[Caleb Xia]: Yea. why?
[You]: I think there’s someone following me
Your message sends, and for a moment air doesn’t enter your lungs.
The typing bubble appears. Disappears. Appears again.
[Caleb Xia]: I’m coming.
You don’t know how he’s going to find you, but you don’t bother questioning it at the moment. You swallow, and your throat is dry enough that it hurts. The streetlamps cast long shadows across the pavement, and it’s hard to discern whether something is just a shadow or something else in the dark.
You don’t turn around.
Your legs carry you as fast as you can go without breaking into a sprint, and your grip tightens around your phone until your fingers ache. Hurry, you think. Hurry up, Caleb.
A car passes.
He’s closer now, whoever it is.
Your breath catches. Your shoulders tense, every instinct screaming at you to run, but your legs feel like they’ve forgotten how.
Suddenly, a car turns the corner too fast, tires kissing the curb before readjusting and you nearly jump out of your own skin. The tint on the car makes it too difficult to see inside, not that you’d be able to see much regardless due to the dark. It slows to a stop as it sees you, and you think if this isn’t who you’re expecting, it might actually be the end for you.
The passenger door swings open.
“Get in.”
Relief floods your body when you hear his voice and you stumble to clamber in.
Relief?
This is Caleb Xia you’re talking about. Now that you think about it, you’re unsure why he was the first you contacted instead of the police. Your fingers had tapped on his profile faster than you could think. Was it just because he was at the top of your contacts? Was it because he was near? It must be, right? It had been instinctual. Your body had reacted—and it had somehow worked out.
Regardless, you can’t possibly deny how relieved you feel right now.
You wonder if this is how MC always feels. It must be nice to know that someone so reliable is always at her beck and call, right? To come running at just a few words—maybe she wouldn’t have had to walk home in the first place. Maybe he would’ve driven her. You feel sick. This isn’t what you should be thinking about right now. Right now, you need to report it to the police and take a much needed nap.
A part of you is envious of her.
“You should’ve called me earlier.”
The chicken doesn’t look as appetizing anymore even despite it sitting before you in all its crispy fried glory. The growling in your stomach from earlier is replaced by a slight pain, and it’s difficult to tell if you’ve only lost your appetite or if it’s a different kind of anxiousness. He watches you from across the table with a perplexed frown while you pick at the chicken aimlessly, nodding blankly.
“I’ll report it first thing in the morning,” Caleb sighs. “I should pick you up from work from now own. Or I’ll call you a taxi if I can’t.”
You nod again.
“Are you okay?”
Ah, he’s asking that again. You hate when he does.
You tilt your head. “I’m just sort of in shock, I think.”
“I know, but you should eat at least a bit. Here.” He holds a piece of chicken on a fork to your face and you scrunch your nose. He smirks. “Here comes the airplane?”
“I might vomit all over you.” A half lie.
He replies instantly. “Then I’ll clean it. Eat.”
For a reason that you just attribute to exhaustion, you don’t bother arguing. Instead, you pop it into your mouth, cheeks dusting pink at the intimacy of the act. He hums in approval and you try your best not to choke. Why was he feeding you—a grown woman? And why were you letting him?
How bizarre. This whole day is bizarre.
At least you’re home—thanks to him.
“Thank you,” you mumble softly. “For getting there so fast.”
He looks almost offended, shaking his head. “Don’t thank me, it was a given. I’m just happy you thought to call me. I was worried you wouldn’t.”
Why did you call him? Well, you suppose he is your husband at the end of the day. One who has eyes for another, but your husband nonetheless. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He stops for a moment, as if in thought, and then smiles sheepishly. Not the annoying fake smile he puts on for show, but one that’s riddled with guilt. Shame. You want to know why. “Just assumed you wouldn’t.”
Strangely, the words make your chest tight.
Your eyes meet his usual striking violets, shoulders slumping as you look away once the eye contact feels too intense. “I’m glad I did.”
You barely catch the tips of his ears turning pink.
Caleb keeps his word for the months following the event. You never have reason to pass by that street again on foot, and although you continue to insist it’s not necessary, having him as your private driver of sorts does feel kind of nice. You think eventually, you’ve come to call him more than a stranger. He’s easier to talk to. Funnier than you thought, actually, when he’s not being annoying to tease you.
You’d never tell him that though, of course.
You blink warily, rubbing at your eyes with the back of your hand when a ray of sunlight escapes through the shades of your bedroom and hit your face. However, it’s not what awakes you. Rather, it’s the insistent buzzing of your phone on your bedside table, which you barely manage to snatch without falling off the edge of the bed.
[Caleb (husband)]: morning sleepinghead, you awake?
[Caleb (husband)]: Come eat breakfast :> made apple juice too
[Caleb (husband)]: I better hear you shuffling around in your room in the next few minutes or i’ll have to come drag you out.. :)
Caleb Xia, you find, nags a lot.
“Sleep well?” he chuckles when you finally emerge, still half-awake despite being fully dressed. You scratch the back of your neck, yawning as you perch yourself on one of the chairs at the counter where he’s standing with an apron tied neatly behind him. If you were just a tad bit more awake, you’d have a field day making a snide comment about it.
“Mm.”
He laughs again, gently. Did he always sound so soft?
“You can always quit your job, y’know,” he shrugs, placing a plate of breakfast foods in front of you. It smells immaculate, as usual. “Offer’s always on the table.”
You shove a forkful of eggs into your mouth, squinting at him. “Why do you wanth me shoo be unemployed sho bad? My parentsh don’t care.”
“It’s not about your family…It just doesn’t seem necessary.”
“I like working. Just not waking up so early.”
“I only want you to avoid overextending yourself if you don’t have to,” he pops a tomato into his own mouth. “I make enough for you to get whatever you want, don’t I?”
“But I want my own money, too.”
“My money is your money. This is the least I can do.”
“Careful,” you snort. “You sound dangerously close to being romantic.”
He tilts his head. “Why wouldn’t I be romantic? I’m your husband.”
This time, you really choke on your food, coughing as he quickly hands you the apple juice. He’s been doing that lately—dropping lines like that out of nowhere, like they’re nothing. Somehow always when you’re least prepared for it, and always with a lopsided grin that tells you he’s either completely oblivious or knows exactly what he’s doing.
You’re willing to bet on the latter.
Caleb Xia, as you figure out in the time you spend with him in his car on the way to work, has terrible taste in films.
“That movie is awful. There’s no way that’s your favorite.”
He gasps dramatically and you don’t bother suppressing the urge to roll your eyes. “Hey, don’t judge before you try it.”
“I’d like it if I never had to try it, actually.”
The smile adorning your lips falls in an instant the car slows to a stop. You find yourself growing disappointed when you arrive at your workplace, because it means you’ll have to leave him. You want to scold yourself for thinking such preposterous thoughts. What are you? A teenager who’s hanging out with a boy for the first time?
You’re married, for god’s sake.
Then again, so what if his company isn’t so bad? What if you think he’s a bit more to you than tolerable? Isn’t that allowed? He’s your husband, after all. If it doesn’t feel so bad, maybe you could let yourself reprise and enjoy it while it lasts.
“Ah, right, I should tell you—I’ll be leaving this weekend for work.”
Ah, nevermind. Reality has a way of slapping you across the face when you least expect it.
“How long?”
“A few weeks at best,” he pauses, voice quieter. “Months, if I’m unlucky.”
You really despise the subtle aching in your chest.
You hate how easily it slips in. How, for a second, it makes the flame that’s gone out years ago flicker, as if these moments could mean more than they do. They don’t. You know they don’t. They aren’t yours to keep. None of it is.
The warmth, the ease, the way he looks at you like this—like you’re something he actually cares about—it’s all fake. Stolen. You’re just standing in the space where someone else is supposed to be.
You press your lips together, forcing the feeling down before it can spread any further. Get a grip.
His palm pats the top of your head, making your cheeks heat against your will. With a grin, he nods. But it’s stiff. The slight crinkle between his brows. Upset. Upset? “I’ll see you tonight.”
It’s like he knows what you’re thinking before you know yourself.
“Who said I want to?”
“You wound me.”
As soon as you enter the building, you feel your phone buzz in your pocket.
[Caleb (husband)]: I know you’re at work, but…
[Caleb (husband)]: Movie night tn ?? i can make us popcorn :D
[Caleb (husband)]: And yes we’re watching my fav so you can stop calling it bad :>
[Caleb (husband)]: Last hurrah before i leave
This is dangerous, you think. Really, really dangerous.
You seriously hope you don’t fall for him, if it isn’t too late already.
A few hours later, the living room is dimly lit with soft lights, the low hum of something playing in the background as Caleb sets everything up. The bowl of popcorn ends up a little too full, a few pieces spilling onto the counter as he carries it over, muttering something under his breath as he munches on the ones that are about to spill over. You sink into the couch, watching him move around the room—adjusting the volume and flipping through options he’s already decided on.
It’s strange, how easy it feels. How normal.
You don’t realize you’re staring until he glances over.
So you look away quickly, fixing your gaze on the screen. But a few seconds pass, and you can feel his attention still lingering.
You pretend not to notice.
What are you doing? What are either of you doing?
You don’t say anything, swallowing the question down into the pit in your stomach.
The movie stars a side character with a passionate devotion to his family, who reminds you of Caleb. Oddly enough, the resemblance is almost uncanny. You kind of want to root for him but also want him to lose terribly. You huff quietly. “He’s so intense.”
Caleb glances over, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “What? You wouldn’t want someone like that?”
You tilt your head, pretending to think. “I mean… he’s a bit much.”
A pause.
“…but it comes from a good place. I like him.”
He stills.
You pick at a piece of popcorn, rolling it between your fingers. “He reminds me of you a little.”
“Yeah?”
You shrug, still not quite looking at him. “Yeah.” A small breath escapes you before you can stop it. “MC is really lucky to have you.”
He goes quiet. When you glance over, he’s already looking at you.
“…Lucky,” he repeats, almost to himself.
You hesitate, then ruin it by saying more. "I mean, you're always there for her, you know? If she calls, you come running. Everyone wants someone like that."
It was supposed to come off lightheartedly, but it only digs the hole deeper.
Something in his expression shifts. His smile fades, his face losing its usual ease as it drops to something you’ve never seen on him before. It contorts in phases. Surprise, and then confusion, and finally into one you prefer the least.
Panic. Something is wrong.
You wish you’d just shut up. The long pause makes you wish you were just a fly on the wall right now.
“Is this why?” he blinks, and his eyes glisten with something you haven’t seen from him. Void of the usual emptiness but replaced with something fuller. Heavier. “Is this why you hate me so much? Because of MC?”
Huh?
“Fuck,” one hand pulls at the roots of his hair, his top teeth sinking into his bottom lip as he attempts to hide his face from you. “I’m a moron. I should’ve known.”
What? Despite your hands growing clammy, you feel cold. Like the blood is draining from your face.
“You must hate me so much.”
When did you ever hate him? You’ve loathed him, certainly, when he’d disappear for weeks on end leaving you all alone in this cold, lifeless house. You’ve wanted to punch your balled up fists into his chest, knowing that it wouldn’t phase him in the slightest simply to alleviate some of your own anger. You’ve wanted to run away a multitude of times. But hate? Have you ever hated Caleb? Can you hate Caleb?
“Caleb.”
“This is my fault. I should’ve been more aware. It’s so obvious now, I feel like an idiot.”
“Caleb.”
“I thought you just hated me because this isn’t a marriage you wanted,” his voice cracks, and he’s burying his face into his palms. “I thought staying away from you was what you wanted. Shit, I’m so stupid.”
“Caleb,” you say, more firmly this time, and he finally looks at you. There’s a watery film over his usually lifeless eyes, glistening against the light of the TV screen, and it makes the pit in your stomach grow deeper. You don’t like seeing him like this. You thought you would, but you don’t.
His voice is a mere whisper now. He looks like he wants to vomit out a million words at once, but there’s three specific ones that linger on his tongue. Is this what they call a woman's intuition? You’re not sure how, but in the moment, it feels like you’re in his head. For the first time in the 4 years you’ve been wed to Caleb Xia, you feel like you can understand him.
A victory that doesn’t feel like one at all.
“Listen to me,” he grabs your hands in his, holding them in front of his chest. “I don’t love her—not as a woman. I haven’t in a long time. She and Zayne are like my family, and I’d be a terrible person not to be happy for them. I’m sorry I didn’t make it clear to you. I’m so sorry.”
Your heart doesn’t seem to be beating anymore.
The air is too thick. Like liquid entering your lungs.
Caleb opens his mouth and then shuts it again, his words stuck in the back of his throat. You’re not sure if you want to hear what he wants to say. The words hold too much value, too many years of hurt, and you don’t know how you’ll react. You don’t want to acknowledge any of this as real, because if it is, what was all of this for? What were the years you spent holed up in your room meant to achieve? Were you just being a fool? And in that case, would you even want to know?
No. You don’t.
So instead, you kiss him.
A wordless, messy kiss. Though he’s taken aback at first, he’s quick to slot his mouth against yours eagerly, hands flying to your waist to pull you closer as if a man starved. It’s desperate. Different from the kiss you shared with him at the courthouse, or for transactional purposes. His mouth feels hot against yours, and when his tongue swipes against your lip, you let him in.
You climb onto his lap, straddling him as he presses you flush against him. The movie is long forgotten. His hair weeds through the crevices between your fingers and he deepens the kiss as if he’s trying to physically become one with you. His heart hammers against your own like a timer, warning you of what this could mean, but you don’t care.
“Put your arms around my neck,” he mumbles against you, and then you’re suddenly being lifted up to your room with his hands supporting your thighs around his waist. But even those few seconds aren’t worth staying apart for, because he’s kissing your neck, mouthing at spots that have you pursing your lips to avoid making any embarrassing sounds. He lets you down gently onto the middle of your bed and follows suit, pushing you onto your back.
You’re here again.
He’s looming over you, face flushed in a deep red this time. He’ll ask if you’re okay. If this is okay. And then he’ll take off his shirt and his hand will slide up yours. It’ll be better this time, because it’s not out of some twisted sense of duty. Desire pulses at your core, but you can’t help but shake off this curdling feeling in your chest, as if you want to hurl. You wait for what you expect, eyes never leaving his.
Instead, he breathes sharply. “I love you.”
The world stops.
“You don’t have to say anything back that I don’t deserve. I just want you to know,” he whispers.
Can anyone love someone like you—much less, your husband? You start breathing again because you have to, staring up at him as if he’s gone insane. In fact, you think you’ve gone insane. Kissing him, lying beneath him, enjoying his presence, looking forward to his breakfasts, letting him drop you off at work, feeling disappointed that he’s leaving—you’ve most definitely died and come back as another person, because this is not you.
This is Caleb Xia. He is an unloving person. He cannot love. But what happens if he does? With tears stinging at his eyes, watching you with a mix of pure adoration and sorrow, he’s telling you he loves you. Love is a strong word, isn’t it? But he means it. He loves you. Caleb loves you. You want to call him a liar, but he’s not.
You want to cry into his chest and run away at the same time.
The flame flickers, and you panic. Not because you despise him, or because his confession is one you don’t want to accept, but because this flame is not one you welcome with open arms anymore. It’s too easy to hurt. Too easy to shrink, yet somehow impossible to destroy.
“I can’t,” you croak. “Not right now.”
Even Caleb can’t mask the hurt that deepens his frown, as if you’ve torn his heart straight from his chest. For a man with so much power, he’s never looked more powerless than he does now.
It feels too vulnerable. Open. As if you’re naked and he’s fully clothed, when it’s infact the exact opposite. You don’t want to open up to him again. You don’t want him to snuff out that small flame you have that never seems to go out no matter how much you douse it in water. Or maybe you do?
He forces a crooked smile, strained against his very will and nods before leaving the room. As the door slips shut, he doesn’t turn to look at you. “Sleep tight.”
You don’t get much sleep that night at all.
Morning comes anyway.
And then another.
And another.
His absence returns, but this time because you’re the one avoiding him. You leave earlier than usual, linger longer at work, find excuses in the smallest things—emails, errands, anything that keeps you just a little out of sync with him. When you do cross paths, it’s brief. Polite. A short good morning or a quick goodnight. It’s easier that way.
You tell yourself this is what you wanted—to put distance back where it belongs. Whatever that night was, whatever flame flickered between you, it will fade. It must fade.
He isn’t yours. Even if he says he is, there’s too much pain--too many years of resentment built up that you don’t know what to do with.
You catch yourself thinking about it at mundane times—standing in line, walking home, staring at your coworkers chatting amongst themselves. The apartment feels different already, like it’s preparing to be emptier. As cold as it was a few months ago, when he was still Caleb Xia, and not just Caleb.
You take the time away from him to reset. To think, but not too much. You find yourself flipping through his photo albums again, smiling when you flip to a particularly embarrassing one. You hear him shuffling outside your room, probably packing for his business trip. You’re aware of what he risks everytime he disappears for weeks at a time—not only his life, but the lives of his men—and you don’t know how he bears to leave home everytime he does.
But he always comes back. He has to.
You suppose it’s for the best for now. And when he returns, things will return to normal. The house won’t be as awkward as it is. The two of you will slip into your usual routine of a loveless marriage, and you’ll find other avenues in life to derive joy from. So will he.
The front door shuts faster than you anticipated.
He’s gone.
This is fine.
This is what you wanted.
The house is empty again. You pace to the living room, and surprisingly, a fresh bouquet of flowers is propped inside their usual vase. You lift the vase into your hands, letting the scent of the flowers waft into your nose. They smell good. New. Sort of like the detergent he uses when doing the laundry.
You set the vase back down, nails pressing faint crescents into your skin.
His face when you last saw him keeps flickering in your mind. So much hurt. Raw with fear.
“I love you.”
You want to tell him he doesn’t. You want to remind yourself that this is your husband. Your heartless, cunning husband who kills people for a living—who doesn’t care about anyone but his family.
But you’re his family, aren’t you?
You can still smell his cologne in the air.
You must’ve missed it from the glint of the sunlight in the glass coffee table—there’s a small shimmer of something sitting beside the vase. With a quirked brow, you pick it up. He usually never leaves trash lying around.
You nearly drop it.
His wedding band.
Your breath stutters, sharp and uneven, like your lungs have forgotten how to work. Your heart pounds as you realize that you're shaking, eyes wide as saucers as you stare at the object in your hands.
No.
He wouldn’t. He wouldn’t just leave it.
The ring sits in your palm like a brick that weighs your entire body down. This isn’t something you can pretend will reset when he comes back.
This means no more quiet dinners. No more stupid arguments over movies he insists are good. No more messages waiting for you when you’re at work. No more him, standing at the counter every morning with a pan in his hand. No more him.
And worst of all, no more chance to fix it. To tell him your side of the story.
Your body moves before your mind catches up.
You wrench the front door open, not bothering to lock it behind you as your feet hit the pavement with just your socks. The air burns your throat as you run, lungs screaming, heart still pounding like it’s trying to break through your ribcage.
He can’t leave.
The stinging beneath your feet go unregistered as you clutch the ring so tightly that it feels like it might dig into your flesh.
Just forward, you hiss to yourself. Faster. You turn corner after corner, your body begging you to stop overexerting yourself, but you can’t bother to care. You don’t even register where you’re going, but you need to go somewhere. It feels like ages and seconds at the same time, as you beg nobody in particular for one more chance.
A chance for what, you're not sure.
Reconciliation? Love? Understanding?
Is any of that possible? And if not, why are you running like your very life depends on it?
The ring digs further into your skin, and you realize it doesn't matter as long as you find who it belongs to. Him. Caleb. The reason and bane of your existence, and apparently what has you running across the entire town in hopes of bringing him back.
Finally, you slam into something solid.
The impact knocks the breath out of you, your grip loosening as the ring nearly slips from your fingers. A hand catches your arms before you can stumble back too far, steadying you with a familiar scent that somehow lets you breathe again.
“Hey—watch it—oh.”
You freeze in place, breath hitching as you look up. Standing right in front of you, he appears slightly disheveled, one hand still gripping your arm while the other awkwardly balances a paper bag of groceries. Caleb blinks, his eyes immediately scanning over your frame before landing on your feet. “Why are you here? Are you okay? And where are your shoes, it’s dangerou—”
“Don’t go, Caleb,” you sniffle, tears already stinging at your eyes as your body finally has a chance to rest, though it doesn’t feel much better. “Please don’t go.”
He stares at you as if you've grown a third eye, nearly dropping his bag of groceries at your pleas. Even the tips of his ears turn red, flustered. "What are you--"
“Why did you leave the ring? Did you lie?” About loving me?
His expression falls, attention honing in on the ring gripped in your fist. Something seems to click in his head, and immediately, he shakes his head. “No, of course not, I was going to leave a note. I just went out to get groceries before I left—”
“So you were going to leave the ring?”
“Well, yes, but can we–”
“Do you not like me anymore?” you blurt, finger bunching at the fabric of his sleeve. “Is it because I ignored you for a week?”
He almost looks offended. “Of course I still like you.”
“Then why?”
His voice softens, as if speaking too loud will scare you away. Hesitantly, he sheepishly releases your arms. Instead, he slowly takes your hand in his, lips pursing as he sighs. His palm feels rough with calluses from the work he does, but light as feathers against your skin. His touch is gentle, as if you’re the most precious thing in the world. “I figured there was no reason for me to tie you to me anymore. I won’t force you to be with someone you can’t even stand to be around. Someone you hate. It’d be selfish.”
Your words tumble out before you can process them. “I don’t hate you.”
Finally, with your hand in his, the world feels okay again. This feeling tells you you’re screwed, but you don’t care.
“I’ve been mad at you, and I don’t know what to do with your feelings because they make no sense, but I don’t hate you,” you mutter. “You’re just too confusing.”
“...Confusing?”
“I just—I don’t know what to do, Caleb,” you wipe vigorously at your eyes with your free hand, head falling to avoid looking him at him. “I don’t know what to think about you. How to feel about you.”
His eyes ease, and you feel him squeeze your fingers. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No.”
“Do you love me?”
“I don’t know.”
Caleb has always been better at reading you than yourself. A flash of hurt ripples across his face, but his eyes maintain its soft glimmer—because he knows. Even if you say you don’t know, he knows. He also knows that you’re afraid of those words, and he doesn’t blame you for it.
So instead, he asks something else. “What am I to you?”
You want to call him a million things. The man who left you by yourself, the man who refused to touch you for so many years, the man who’d chosen to sleep in the guest bedroom just to avoid taking up space in yours. He’s felt awful, inconsiderate, and cold. But he’s also the man who’s gotten you flowers, the man who’d break four speeding laws to make you feel safe, the man who makes sure you’re never hungry, the man who folds your laundry neatly and organizes it color-coded in your closet. The man who you wish you could slap across the face and hold close to you at the same time. The man who’s made you feel alone yet so cared for all at once.
You like him, you think. In some strange way that’s never been covered in the romantic films you used to clutch onto like a life line, you like him. The ‘L’ word teeters on the tip of your tongue like a marble rolling around to decide what these emotions settling in your heart really are, but it doesn’t really matter. All you know is that you need him. You want him. You want him to hold your face and kiss you tenderly, like he did that night. You want him to do it again and again until you can’t breathe, and all you can feel is him. You want to eat dinner with him every night and wake up in the morning to his stupid apron. You want to go grocery shopping with him. You want to fall asleep watching a movie in his arms.
“What am I to you?”
Tears fall down your cheeks in fat globs and you try your hardest not to let your voice crack. “My husband.”
His eyes widen for a moment, and then his lips split into a wide grin that resembles the lovesick expression of a teenage boy who’s holding hands for the first time. Caleb drops his grocery bag to his feet and reaches either hands to the sides of your face, cradling you gingerly as he guides you closer. Before you’re even registering it, he brushes a strand of hair out of your forehead and presses a soft but firm kiss to your temple, where you can feel him smile against your skin.
“Who am I to say no my wife?”
Your marriage is a messy, complicated jumble of emotions. The confusion. The fear. The warmth. It’s not perfect. It never will be. And despite it all, you don’t want it any other way, because Caleb Xia is a loving person.
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