where gravity made you stay
synopsis: It begins with a cake, a candle, and a question:
“But it’s your birthday, Gege,” you whisper, voice tight with longing. “And your homecoming…” He only shakes his head, gaze falling into yours like a vow. “No,” he says, quiet but certain. “It’s ours, Meimei.”
After months apart, you both return, changed, haunted, raw around the edges. But gravity pulls you back together. What starts with laughter and flickering light spirals into something deeper, a night of worship and ache. Bodies relearn each other. Hunger turns feral. Promises are carved in moans, in bruises, in skin.
This is love—unspoken and ruinous. It tastes like frosting and salt. It ends in a whisper, a vow, and the weight of him inside you.
wc: ~31.7k
tags: angst, fluff and smut, emotional sex, penis in vagina sex, possessive behavior, possessive sex, body worship, jealousy, marking, mirror sex, unsafe sex, oral sex, cunnilingus, nipple play, nipple licking, spanking, multiple orgasms, sexual overstimulation, degradation, power imbalance, dom/sub, pseudo-incest, pseudo orthopedics (cn trope), love confessions, emotional hurt/comfort, healing sex, reunion sex, slow burn, aftercare, inappropriate use of evol (love and deepspace), birthday sex, hair-pulling, haircuts, neck kissing, kissing, suicidal thoughts, heavy angst, domestic fluff, homecoming
notes: Hi! Thank you so much for clicking and reading this large fic. It’s currently June 30th, the final day of Juneleb/XiayiJune, and though I’m very, very late, I’m also incredibly self-indulgent with this piece. Here it is, a big and filthy slowburn. I hope you'll enjoy it!
“Thank you for visiting! Hope you enjoy the birthday cake. Send my wishes to the lad for me!”
The bell above the store chimed softly as the door closed behind you, a muted thud sealing away the warm glow inside. The soles of your shoes landed on uneven stone, the rocky pavement beneath you slightly damp from earlier rain. Around you, the world moved on without pause, children laughing near the park swings, couples tangled in each other’s arms beneath lamp posts that flickered like stars on earth. The scent of roasted peanuts from a street cart lingered in the air, mingling with something sweet, maybe caramel, maybe memory.
You didn’t move. Your foot hovered mid-step, caught in a moment of uncertainty as your gaze snagged on the radiant glow of streetlights and the silhouettes of unburdened happiness dancing in the distance. Their laughter echoed like a distant melody, muffled and far away, as if you were submerged beneath the surface of a tranquil sea. The world was a postcard, beautiful, distant, unreal. And you stood at the edge of it, unable to touch any of it.
“Hey.”
A hand pressed gently against your shoulder, pulling you back into your body.
“Oh, come on, girl. What’s with the face? Don’t tell me you hate the cake!”
Tara’s voice rang with practiced cheer, her smile all sunlight and effort. She still wore her full hunter’s uniform, the straps across her chest slightly loosened now that the mission, or the shift, was done. Sometimes, you thought she looked like someone out of a dream. Not because she was ethereal, but because your brain kept slipping between what was real and what used to be.
You blinked at her. Then to the side, where Simone stood, ever the quiet observer, her fingers tugging at Tara’s arm to ease her grip off your shoulder.
“Let her be, Tara,” Simone murmured, her voice low, almost fond. The warmth that had touched you disappeared like vapor, like breath on glass.
You pressed a hand to your forehead. A headache, maybe. Or something deeper, a sense of disconnection that gnawed at you.
Where were you again? What time was it? Why did everything feel like you were waking up halfway through a memory?
You looked down, your fingers tightening around the handles of the paper bag in your grip. It was a luxurious thing, stiff, glossy, heavier than it looked. Orange ribbons curled neatly around the handles, tied like something celebratory. Inside, cushioned carefully, sat a baby blue cake box. The corners of it were pressed in just slightly from how hard you’d been holding it. And on top of the box lay a cream-colored envelope with your handwriting on it, the ink just barely smudged from your thumb. Happy Birthday, it said, written in your slanted cursive like you were still pretending he’d be there to read it.
Ah.
It was his birthday.
Your older brother’s birthday.
Or—no. Not anymore. “Used to be,” your mind corrected bitterly, like a voice that didn’t belong to you. The thought pierced something soft in your chest, something that hadn’t fully healed. You couldn’t even remember letting go of the bag, but the moment your brain caught up, it was already too late. Your fingers had loosened, and the whole thing slipped from your grasp, dropping with a sickening thud onto the rocky pavement. The cake hit the ground hard, the impact tilting the box, crushing one of the sides. The sound broke through the street noise sharply, enough to jolt Simone into pausing mid-sentence, Tara spinning on her heel to look at you with wide eyes.
But you didn’t meet them. Couldn’t. Everything around you blurred, a ringing in your ears muffling even their worried voices. You were too busy spinning, spiraling—Caleb, Caleb, Caleb. The name echoed inside your skull like a storm siren, so loud it made you dizzy. Your heart twisted violently, your breath stuttered. You missed him. You missed him in a way that hurt your bones. You missed him in the way your body remembered grief even when your mind was trying to forget. These past few months hadn’t just been lonely, they had been hollowing. Quiet, subtle, like being bled dry by something invisible. You hadn’t even realized how much of yourself had been carved away until now, standing in the middle of the street, staring at a crushed birthday cake on the ground, and realizing all of this was still for him.
If someone had ever asked you what Caleb meant to you—what he was to you—you wouldn’t have had an answer. Not a real one. The words stayed lodged in your throat like thorns, sharp and threatening, ready to tear your insides if you tried to say them out loud. Some things weren’t meant to be spoken. Some things were too sacred, too complex to be pressed into the shape of a sentence. Because Caleb wasn’t just your step-brother. He was never just one thing. He was your sun, bright and blinding, the center of everything. His love had always been loud, full-bodied, dazzling in its warmth. But he was your moon, too. Gentle. Watching. Always there, even when he wasn’t in sight. You didn’t have to look to know he was around. You just felt him. Quietly orbiting, pulling you back when you drifted too far.
When your grandmother passed and the house went quiet, when you lost the last of what held your childhood together, it was Caleb who picked up the pieces. He was barely more than a boy, still soft around the face, but he stepped into the storm like he was born for it. He worked job after job, long hours that stole the light from his eyes, but he still came home to cook for you. Still called you his girl. Still kissed the top of your head before bed, even when he was too tired to eat. He never complained. Not once. He carried the weight of your grief on his back, made it look effortless, like lifting you was something he was proud to do. He gave everything, until there was nothing left to give. And he smiled anyway. Because that was who he was.
And still, even that didn’t explain it all. Because he was more than your brother, more than your guardian. He was your first ache. The first person who ever made your stomach twist with something too big to name. You tried to bury it, of course. You told yourself it was affection, just too much of it. That the closeness was natural. That the way your eyes followed him didn’t mean anything. But it never left. The feeling stayed. It grew with you, threaded itself into your skin like something inevitable. You learned to smile around it. Learned to watch him love other women and keep your mouth shut. But every person you touched after him was just another way to pretend you didn’t still belong to him. They were distractions, every single one. And none of them came close.
You remembered the way he’d tease you, voice bright with mischief, hand warm around yours as he pulled you through fields of sunflowers taller than your heads.
"Meimei! It’s almost my birthday. I wonder what my cute little sister has planned for me?"
His grin was so wide it could eclipse the sun. He always said your name like it was the first word he ever learned, and the last one he ever wanted to say. And you’d snap back at him with a playful sneer, threatening him with the one food he hated most. "Lamian with cilantro?" And he’d groan, scandalized, giving you a dramatic swat on the back while you burst into laughter. That memory felt untouchable now. Golden. Preserved in light.
But what came after was softer. Quieter. He didn’t ask at that time. He just told you. You still remembered the look in his eyes when he confessed, eyes darker than dusk, full of something you’d spent your whole life trying not to drown in.
"I love you," he had said. Just like that. Like it was nothing. Like it was the most natural truth in the world. Not a single stutter. Not a flinch. And he hadn’t meant it the way a brother says it. He had meant it in the way that made you feel like the earth had gone still beneath your feet. Like every terrible, impossible thing inside you had just been named.
And you didn’t even say anything back. Not in words. You just stepped into his arms and pressed your face to his chest. You held him, felt the shape of the man he’d become, the muscle beneath his shirt, the warmth of him, the strength. You cried. Not out of shame. Not out of confusion. But because, for the first time in your life, love had made sense.
But now? What were you supposed to do with all of that? Where did that kind of love go, when the body it belonged to had been reduced to ash? How were you supposed to keep living with something so large inside you, when there was nowhere left to put it? He was gone. Cold. Buried. Scattered in a place you had never dared to visit. Not because you didn’t want to, but because you weren’t sure you’d survive it. Because some part of you still believed he might come back. That the door would open. That his voice would call your name from down the hall. That he’d find you again like he always had.
But he hadn’t. He didn’t, he wouldn’t.
And still, even now, even like this, you loved him. With every broken, ruined part of yourself. You still did.
“Shit—” Simone’s voice cracked sharply, and you barely caught the flash of Tara’s wide eyes as she turned mid-sentence, alarm replacing her teasing in an instant.
But it was too late. Your body wasn’t yours anymore.
Something inside you had snapped, quietly, soundlessly, like a silk thread pulled until it broke. You couldn’t feel the cold. Or the warmth. Not really. You were aware of arms wrapping around you, Simone from the front, Tara slipping in behind you, their hands rubbing your back in slow, tender motions. But it was all muted, like someone had wrapped your body in glass. Their voices were soft, desperate, calling your name, whispering comforts you couldn’t quite understand. You knew they were trying. You knew they meant it. But the warmth didn’t reach you.
Because he was gone.
Because no amount of hands on your skin could replace the one you’d truly been reaching for. No voice could unburn the image of the explosion. The sirens. The smoke. The way your heart had stopped not from fear—but from knowing. From feeling it, deep and guttural, that Caleb would not be coming back.
“Babe, please breathe... we’re here, it’s okay, I’m so sorry—” Simone’s whisper ghosted against your ear, light and kind, and it broke something else. Because she sounded so much like him. That same gentle cadence, that way of soothing you with her tone more than her words. And if he were alive, if he had stayed, you wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t be falling apart in the middle of the street like this. You wouldn’t be piecing yourself back together every morning, only to crumble the moment you remembered he was no longer real.
You lowered yourself down slowly, knees trembling, and reached for the paper bag. The ribbons were loose, the box dented at the corner, but maybe, just maybe , the cake inside had survived. You swallowed hard, straightened your spine, and stood again, trying to hold your breath steady.
It’ll be fine.
That was the lie you clung to. That had to be enough.
“Don’t worry. I’m alright.” The words came out hoarse, thin, held together by sheer will. You didn’t look them in the eye when you said it. You couldn’t. Not when you were this close to unraveling again. Your friends had been everything to you these past months. Simone’s late-night check-ins, Tara’s chaotic jokes, the way they’d dragged you out of bed and taken you to cafés you used to visit with him, hoping to overwrite the memories.
They tried. God, they tried so hard.
And you loved them for it. You really did.
But even their light wasn’t enough. Not when the person who made you feel alive was buried six feet under and dust in your lungs.
“Are you sure?” Tara’s voice was small now. Wobbly. You turned your head just enough to see the tears welling up in her eyes, that look of fear, not for herself, but for you. “You’re not... going to leave us again, right?”
Her voice broke at the end, and suddenly, both her hands were on yours. Simone joined, gripping your fingers with a kind of desperate love that made your chest tighten. You looked down, at their hands wrapped around yours like chains made of warmth.
And the worst part? You didn’t have an answer.
“I’ll be fine. I won’t do anything rash, I promise.”
The words left your mouth like they cost you something. You squeezed their hands tight, tighter than you meant to, like you were trying to stop yourself from falling apart through sheer grip strength alone. You added a smile, a tiny one, barely there, just a soft pull at the corner of your lips. It didn’t reach your eyes. But maybe it would be enough.
It wasn’t.
They didn’t buy it. Not this time.
The last time they did, they almost lost you to the sea.
You could feel it in their exhale, in the way Tara’s shoulders dropped and Simone’s gaze flicked away like she couldn’t bear to look at you too long. You let out a weak chuckle, something pitiful and dry, like dust caught in your throat. It didn’t matter. You didn’t blame them. You wouldn’t believe you either. Not when you kept doing this, sinking, lying, resurfacing just enough to pretend you were breathing.
You didn’t deserve them. You never had. They were too good, too gentle, too human. You didn’t deserve this kind of warmth, this kind of love. Not when all you did was push it away. Not when every time someone reached for you, all you could do was sink deeper into the dark. His love. Their love. All of it, it wasn’t made for you. It couldn’t be. Because if it was, he wouldn’t have left. He wouldn’t have died. And you wouldn’t be here, standing in the middle of a street with a ruined cake and a heart too full of rot.
You were meant for whatever the world’s ugliest things had planned for you. You were born to drown.
“Babe,” Simone said sharply. “Stop this.”
Her hand came up to your shoulder, steadying, grounding. The pressure of it sent heat through your spine, and only then did you realize your chest was rising too fast. You were breathing erratically, your heart pounding like a fist against your ribs, like it wanted out. You blinked hard, eyes stinging, your gaze darting anywhere but at them, anywhere that didn’t look like pity.
You hated this. You hated needing.
But then Tara slipped her hand into yours, fingers lacing with yours with that same ease she always had. She didn’t say much. She didn’t need to. Her grip was enough.
“Let’s go home, alright?” she said quietly, the calm in her voice like a lifeline. “You’re spiraling. It’s not good to stay out here like this.” They both held onto you then. Not pulling, not dragging, just with you . One on each side, guiding you forward. Their hands didn’t let go. They didn’t leave.
Not like he did.
And yet, at this exact hour, on this same street, you could still hear him. That voice that lived in your marrow.
“Let’s go home, Meimei.”
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The walk home felt excruciatingly slow, like time had folded in on itself. Their steps fell beside yours, voices carrying stories that should’ve made you laugh. Tara rambled about the chaos at the hunter association, how she’d spilled coffee on the smug bartender they always saw, how Simone accidentally set off the training alert sirens while trying to prank Captain Jenna. It was stupid. It was funny. It was normal. And they told it all like the world hadn’t ended.
You listened in silence. Cradled between them, their arms looped with yours, their laughter brushing the edge of your awareness. They were holding you like you meant something. Like you were still real. But inside your chest, it felt like something was unraveling, slowly, softly. Your mind had split into two. One half walking alongside them under the flickering city lights, the other still standing at the edge of that charred wreckage. Still hearing the alarms. Still watching his body fall into nothing.
And when you finally reached your apartment building, they wouldn’t let go. Tara clung a little tighter. Simone’s grip lingered. There was worry in both of their faces—worry they didn’t know how to mask, no matter how light their words were. Tara tried anyway.
“Go celebrate your gege’s birthday, alright?” she chirped, her tone too chipper, her eyes too wet.
“I will.”
Your voice was quiet, heavy. You slipped your hands from theirs with a reluctant tug, your fingers trailing from their warmth like it hurt to leave. “I promise I’ll call you tomorrow.” You hesitated. Then added, “Thank you. For everything. I wouldn’t have made it here without you. The food. The decorations. The cake. I know it’s too much.”
They smiled. But not their usual kind. Their lips curved, but their eyes didn’t follow. It was the kind of smile you wear when you’re trying not to cry. And you hated that you made them wear it. You watched them walk away, their silhouettes swallowed by the night. The sky was still open, the stars watching, but the silence felt louder once their laughter disappeared.
The door clicked shut behind you and warmth flooded the space.
Your apartment glowed. The soft orange of the balloons bobbed gently near the ceiling, the blue streamers curled around the curtain rods, brushing the window light. A banner stretched across the far wall, your brother’s name painted in big bold letters. Little cutouts of his first ship, the FY-26, were strung together above the shelves. Plush apples, the ones he always bought for you, lined the couch. It smelled like cinnamon and roasted soy, all his favorite dishes laid out on the table you used to share.
They had done so much. For him. For you.
But something felt off.
It was too warm. Too inviting. Too alive. The kind of homecoming you prepare for someone who will walk through the door with that crooked smile, arms out, voice full of teasing affection.
But he wasn’t coming home.
You drifted into the kitchen and sank into the chair. It wasn’t a collapse. It was gravity giving up on you. You tilted your head upward. The chandelier he’d installed still shone above you, crooked in one corner, but bright. Always bright. Just like he was. Just like he used to be.
But no. You couldn’t fall into it again. Not tonight. Not after everything.
You pushed yourself to your feet, breath shaky but determined. You reached for the paper bag, pulled out the cake box with both hands. It was still wrapped in orange ribbons, the knot a little looser now. You checked the edges. No visible dents. A quiet sigh escaped your lips, half relief, half exhaustion.
Carefully, layer by layer, you peeled the box open.
And there it was.
A beautiful cake, pristine. The frosting a soft orange, clouds of pale pink swirled across the surface. Nestled in the center was a tiny plane made of sugar, shaped just like the one he used to sketch in his notebooks. It looked like a dream he never got to finish.
The tears slipped before you could stop them.
One after another. Hot. Silent.
You wiped them with the back of your hand, quick, desperate, scared they might ruin the cake. You didn’t want to make it sour. Not something this sacred. You sat again, carefully placing the cake in the center of the table, surrounded by all his favorite food. The spread looked like a memory laid out for worship. But it wasn’t a celebration. It was an offering.
And the ghost you loved still hadn’t come to eat.
Sensing the grief choking out the air, you straightened your back and tried to compose yourself. You didn’t want the mood to rot further. Caleb wouldn’t have wanted his birthday to be like this. He wouldn’t have wanted the room to feel like a graveyard. He would’ve wanted joy. Laughter. Maybe music playing softly in the background. He would’ve wanted you smiling, even if your eyes were wet. Maybe he was up there right now, you told yourself, flying near the moons, his wings open like an angel’s, trailing stardust and peace, brushing against people’s wishes and leaving warmth behind.
You let out a long breath and stretched your fingers toward the small striped candle beside the cake. The wax felt cool. Solid. Real. You looked at it for a long moment, hoping, praying, it would be enough to appease whatever was left of him in this room. You pressed it into the center of the cake, watched the frosting squish gently around it. Then, with a flick of the lighter, flame bloomed.
There it was. All of it. His favorite foods. His dream-shaped cake. And you. The only one left beside it all.
You parted your lips, tried to speak, to say something, anything, that could give meaning to this hollow place inside you. But nothing came. Just a soft, broken sigh—the kind that didn’t carry sound, only surrender. The kind that left your mouth like a breath given up. Your throat clenched. Your brow furrowed. You couldn’t even remember how to make your voice work. Your fingers curled into your thighs, nails biting through fabric into skin, and still it wasn’t enough to ground you. You inhaled, long and shaking, chest rising with effort. Once. Then again. You had to be steady. You had to hold still for this.
Then, softly, like something sacred, you began to sing.
“Happy birthday, Caleb...”
The first line cracked at the edges, your voice raw and trembling. The song sat strangely in your mouth, too familiar and too foreign all at once. You remembered all the times you’d sung it before, with laughter in your throat and frosting on your fingers, with his stupid grin teasing you across the table, always waiting for the wrong note so he could interrupt you with a cheer or a kiss to your forehead. You remembered his eyes, bright and expectant. You remembered his laugh. You remembered everything.
“Happy birthday, Caleb...”
The second line was quieter, thinner, like the room was swallowing your voice before it could echo. Your fingers loosened from your thighs and fell limply at your sides. The candle flickered in the center of the table, flame bending gently as if listening. The food sat untouched. The cake glowed with its single stripe of light. You were alone. And the words felt heavier than any grief you had ever spoken.
“Happy birthday, dear Caleb...”
You stopped. The last line refused to come out. Your lips trembled with it, but your lungs wouldn’t push. You could barely breathe. The tears gathered fast, burning at your waterline. You blinked once. Then twice. Then you opened your mouth, and forced the rest of the song out in a whisper.
“Happy birthday... Caleb.”
The syllables were so soft they almost didn’t exist. They were carried off by the gentle hum of the refrigerator. Swallowed by the flickering candlelight. Absorbed into the air like smoke. Your voice cracked on the final note, breaking in half mid-word. And then the tears came, violent and uninvited.
They spilled from you like something rotten bursting open. They were sudden, sharp sobs ripping through your chest. You didn’t try to stop them. You didn’t wipe your face. You didn’t move.
Then, all at once, you did. You turned. You stood. And you ran.
Your feet carried you to the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind you. The echo of it sounded too loud. Too final.
“Get your shit together—please,” you whispered, banging your head softly against the door. You couldn’t even feel the pain. It barely stung. It was nothing compared to the weight of losing him. Compared to the ache in your bones that wouldn’t leave.
You turned slowly and looked into the mirror.
And there she was. The reflection you didn’t recognize.
You widened your eyes, horrified. How had you become this? You weren’t the woman he had loved. Not anymore.
Your makeup had bled with your tears, streaks of black eyeliner dragging down your cheeks like you’d been crying ink. Your skin, once sun-kissed, glowing, now looked dull, sallow, lifeless. Pale in a way that made you look like something unfinished. Your lips were cracked, bitten raw. You could taste the blood if you licked them. You could feel how often you’d peeled them open just to feel something.
But the worst part, the part that broke you, was your hair.
Your hand reached for it, slow and unsure. You gathered chunks of it, fingers trembling as you tried to smooth it down, stroke it the way he used to. But no matter how much you patted or pulled, it stayed dull. Frizzy. Dead. It didn’t shine like it used to. It didn’t feel like yours. It felt like something borrowed, ruined, and left behind.
It had been your crown. Yours and his.
And now?
Now it was just a clunky mess. Your hair, once your pride, once his favorite thing to touch—had become something else entirely. It no longer shimmered or curled the way it used to beneath his fingers. It hung heavy and uneven, frizzy and limp despite the wash. And worse than its shape was the way it felt. Not to the touch, but deep in your chest. Because it had been touched. Touched by hands you couldn’t name, pulled by strangers in moments you barely remembered, your head pushed back or down, the strands tangled in fists that didn’t know you, didn’t care to. All you could feel now was the filth of it, clinging to your scalp like rot. The memories of their mouths, their weight, the way they handled you, not as someone to be loved, but something to be used. Something to be consumed. You told yourself it was an escape, a way to chase the heat of Caleb’s hands, the memory of his soft tug when he’d braid your hair before school. But it never worked. No one was him. No one ever came close. Each encounter left you colder. Each touch another wound layered on top of the first one that never healed. The bruises may have faded, but the shame stayed. Sharp. Bright. Bleeding beneath the surface.
You yanked your hair hard at the roots, your breath hitching. You felt so—so very tired of yourself. Not just the body, but the memory of it. Sometimes you wished your hair would just vanish, fall off in clumps, disappear like he had. You wanted to shave it all away. It was heavy. Like a weight dragging behind you, reminding you of everything you couldn’t undo. But then you remembered. You remembered how he used to sit behind you on the couch, gently combing his fingers through your strands while you read aloud to him. How he’d hum when he was proud of his braiding, like you were some art he had crafted. Each morning he made it different. A fishtail. A waterfall. A messy bun with blue pins. And every time, without fail, you’d turn to him and ask, “Gege, do I really look pretty like this?” and he’d look at you like you hung the stars. His smile was never teasing. Never false. It was the kind that soaked straight through your bones, warm and unwavering. It made you believe it.
But he wasn’t here anymore.
Your hand trembled as you touched your hair again. You tried to feel the pain. To own it. To rip it away like shedding skin. You grabbed a handful, curled your fingers into the strands, pulled. Nothing. No release. No satisfying snap of loss. Just a dull tug and a burning behind your eyes. You weren’t strong enough to do it. Not physically, not emotionally, especially when the memory of his hands still clung to every strand.
Then, your eyes dropped to your collarbone. And that’s when you saw them, faint, fading, but still there. Marks, red and uneven, scattered like broken thoughts across your skin. Some small, barely visible unless you tilted your neck just right. Others darker, like fingerprints pressed too hard. Like someone had tried to claim you, brand you with their presence, but not in the way he ever had. Not in the way that felt like belonging. No.
These marks felt like theft. Like evidence. Of what they did, of what you let them do.
You stepped closer to the mirror, breath catching. One hand rose instinctively, hovering above your chest, fingers trembling just above the bruises as if touching them would make them permanent. Would make them real. Your lips parted. No sound came out.
They weren’t beautiful. They weren’t symbols of passion, or desire, or even warmth. They were the remnants of cold encounters. The kind that left you hollow. The kind you walked away from and immediately wished you hadn’t survived. You didn’t remember their names. You didn’t want to. What haunted you was that you let them. You invited it. You asked for it. Just to feel something. To erase him. To punish yourself for surviving.
What would Caleb say, seeing you like this?
And in that mirror, in that awful, sterile light, the only word that echoed in your skull, over and over, was…
“Disgusting”
You whispered it to yourself without even meaning to. Like it had been waiting behind your tongue all night.
Disgusting.
Your throat tightened. Your jaw locked. You turned your face away from the glass, biting your cheek so hard you tasted blood. The tears came back, but slower this time. Not crashing. Not loud. Just leaking, just quiet. Continuous, like something inside had broken open and didn’t know how to stop bleeding. You couldn’t look anymore. Not at your skin, not at the face you didn’t recognize, not at the body that didn’t feel like yours.
You dropped to the ground, knees hitting the cold, hard tile with a crack that echoed too loud in the silence. The shock of it barely touched you. You stayed there, still, your body folded over itself like a wilted flower, arms limp, head hanging low. You didn’t cry this time. You just stayed, like the grief had carved you hollow and poured in something heavier than pain, something colder. You were no longer yourself, not really. Not the woman he loved. Not even the sister you once were. Just the after-image. Just the echo. Maybe you had died alongside him, just not all at once. Maybe your soul had been leaking out slowly ever since. And maybe, it was time to leave, too. Maybe that was the kindest thing left to do.
And then—a sound. Barely anything more than a creak, a whisper. The kind of sound that could’ve come from the walls settling, or the night exhaling. But this one felt wrong. It didn’t belong to this space, this stillness. It was too soft, too intimate to exist in a world this cruel.
Your breath caught instantly, sharp and tight in your chest. Like your lungs had heard it before your brain did. Like some part of you recognized it.
You snapped back into your body. The grief-haze cleared in a sudden rush, everything sharper, meaner. Your head whipped toward the hallway, senses screaming. Someone was inside. Someone had entered. Your pulse thundered like footsteps on glass, too loud to be real. Panic spread through your body like fire licking at your edges.
You moved. Somehow. Your limbs trembled, half-broken from hours of collapse, but your body still knew how to protect itself. You staggered toward the kitchen counter, fingers scrabbling for the edge, your knees weak and untrustworthy. The world tilted. The shadows bent. Your vision danced in dizzy pulses. But your hand found what it needed, cold metal, hidden beneath the cabinet lip. Your gun. Small, emergency-grade, familiar. You wrapped your fingers around it like it was the last solid thing left. You lifted it. You pointed it toward the living room.
Every step forward felt like walking into the jaws of something you couldn’t name. The shadows were long here, cast gold and amber by the low lights, stretching across the floor like fingers. Everything in the room felt tense, watching, holding its breath with you. And then, there, at the edge of the hallway, standing just beyond the reach of light, a silhouette.
You froze. Your hand jerked, the barrel of the gun dipping a little from the weight of your disbelief. Because it was… tall. Familiar. A shape you had memorized in every lifetime. The shape that haunted your dreams and your prayers and your screams into the pillow.
It couldn’t be. It could not be.
Your whole body started to shake.
“…Meimei?”
The voice. His voice.
So quiet. So full of breath, like he didn’t dare speak louder. Like if he said it too clearly, he might vanish again. You hadn’t heard that voice in months. And still it unspooled something deep inside you, some inner coil you’d held too tightly for too long. It was the voice you thought you’d made up sometimes, just to survive. The voice you swore you’d forgotten the tone of. And yet here it was. Soft. Familiar. Real.
You stumbled back a step, barely breathing, your gun trembling in your grip. This wasn’t possible. This had to be a trick. A hallucination. Your knees buckled, but you stayed standing by sheer will alone. You looked him dead-on, or tried to, but the shadows made him blur—made it easier to believe he was just another ghost.
You hit yourself. Literally. Fists pounding against your skull like pain could force the world to make sense. Like you could knock yourself back into reality, or knock the hallucination out of your sight. “No, no, no… this isn’t real,” you choked, each word trembling at the edge of hysteria. “I saw you die. I watched it happen.” Your voice cracked as the images flooded back—fire licking up steel, smoke swallowing sky, a figure swallowed whole. “You’re dead. You’re dead, you’re dead, I saw the flames, I saw them bury you, I saw—”
The panic rose fast, too fast to hold down. Your hands were slick against the gun, trembling so hard you couldn’t even feel your fingers anymore. You pointed it anyway, blind and desperate, your breath ragged. “Don’t come closer!” you screamed, the command splitting your voice wide open. “I swear I’m armed. I’ll shoot. Don’t—don’t come closer, please, I can’t…” Your words shattered, every syllable raw, like your body was trying to hold back the flood with nothing but broken bones.
But he stepped forward.
Slowly. Cautiously. Like he knew the air might shatter if he moved too fast. And as he came into the light, inch by inch, the shadows gave him back to you. First a glint of his eye. Then the slope of his shoulder. Then the fullness of his face, the exact curve of his jaw, the way his body always filled a room just by being in it. The air shifted around him, stilled, softened, like it knew something miraculous was taking place.
And then there he was.
Caleb.
Not a ghost. Not a dream stitched together by your broken heart. Not a whisper from the dead or a trick your grief had conjured. No, this was blood. This was bone. This was him. The man you had buried in your memory. The man whose voice you had mourned like a language lost to time. And now he stood in front of you, his breath visible, his chest rising, his eyes wide and filled with you.
Your gun slipped from your fingers. It clattered to the floor, forgotten.
Your knees buckled, gave way like the last tether inside you had finally snapped. You crumpled. No grace, no control. Just complete collapse. The floor met you hard, but you barely felt it. Your body folded into itself, your hands falling limp in your lap. Your lungs refused to expand, like the moment itself was too big to breathe inside. Your heart thrashed in your chest, a frantic, helpless rhythm that hurt more than it healed.
You looked up at him. Your vision swam. Your lips parted, soundless, then barely—just barely—you managed to speak.
“No,” you whispered, your voice so thin it almost didn’t exist. “No, this can’t be. You’re not—you can’t…”
And then he said it.
“Meimei,” he breathed.
Your name, like a prayer. Like an apology. Like a man falling to his knees without moving. It cracked you open like nothing else ever could.
“Please.”
You saw him fall to his knees. Like gravity had found him too. Like the weight of seeing you again had snapped something in his chest. His hand trembled, reaching, shaking, wanting so badly to hold you the way he always had, to gather you close like he used to when the world was too loud, too much. But when his palms touched your shoulders, tentative and warm, you flinched. Just enough to feel it. Just enough to make him hesitate. You shifted back a little, not out of hate, but something worse—shame. You couldn’t meet his eyes. Couldn’t let him see what you had become, what you had done with yourself in his absence. But his warmth was there. His scent. His presence. It wrapped around you like memory, and everything inside you cracked open like lightning through ice.
Where had he been? Was this a trick? Was this really Caleb?
“...Gege?” The name scraped out of your throat in a whisper so fragile it barely existed. Your voice, thin and breaking, dissolved into the still air. Your gaze finally rose to his, and it felt like a thousand emotions collided at once. Fear. Rage. Longing. Isolation. Hope. All of them lived in your eyes, and in his. His dark violet gaze, once so bright, now dimmed with exhaustion, streaked with pain. He looked wrecked. Haunted. Like he had clawed his way through death itself just to get here. And maybe he had.
“Yes, baby,” he said, voice almost trembling. “I’m here. I’m so sorry... but I’m here. I’m your Caleb.”
Then he pulled you in.
Gentle and deliberate, like you were made of glass and heartbreak. His arms wrapped around you with the care of someone who still couldn’t believe you were real. You inhaled sharply and there it was. His scent. Not just the soap or the fabric or the heat. It was him. That strange, perfect mix of warmth and skin and starlight that no one else in the universe could ever replicate. It hit you like a wave, drowning you in memories. The way he used to hold you after a nightmare. The way he brushed his nose against your temple when you cried. The way he always stayed.
But your mind wouldn’t stop spinning. You couldn’t believe this. You refused to. It was too much. You shoved him away, your chest heaving with frantic breath, every inhale like splinters dragging through your lungs. Thunder cracked in the distance. Your voice was barely above a whisper when you spoke, but it trembled with fury and disbelief.
“Don’t... lie to me. Please.”
You struck him with your palm, weak, helpless, a flicker of rage amidst the storm of fear. “Don’t do this to me,” you whispered. “Don’t be someone else. What if you’re not even him? What if you’re a decoy, a dupe, a trick? What if they built you from ash and memory just to break me again?” Your words poured out like poison you’d been swallowing for months, maybe years. “What if you’re just a body with his face?”
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t protest. He just took your hands gently in his, cupping them like something sacred. His fingers moved with a precision you remembered down to the marrow. Steady, warm, and so sure. He was not forceful, nor demanding. Just there, reassuring and real. He held you like he was putting you back together.
“It’s me, pip-squeak,” he said, voice heavy, cracking with the ache he hadn’t let show until now. “It’s really me. I’m sorry it took so long... but I’m back.” And then he did something only your Caleb ever did, he lifted one of your hands to his cheek, guiding it gently, reverently, like it belonged there. Your fingers trembled against his skin, his warmth grounding you like gravity. Then he brought them to his lips, brushing a soft, trembling kiss against your knuckle. Like a vow. Like a resurrection.
That was the moment you shattered.
Your hand flew up and struck his chest, not out of strength, but because something inside you couldn’t hold still anymore. The blow was weak, clumsy, more grief than force. “Fuck you,” you breathed, like the words had been caged behind your ribs for too long. You hit him again, your knuckles barely making contact with muscle. “Stupid gege…” Another sob slipped out. It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t clean. It was broken and wet and full of fury you didn’t know how to carry anymore. “How dare you come back after all this time? After I broke, after I burned, after I—” You couldn’t even finish. The words curled inside you like smoke.
Your fists struck again and again, powerless against his chest, as if the pain might leak out through your skin if you just kept moving. “You asshole. You bastard. You—” A sharp inhale. “You left me. You left me alone in that fucking world without you.”
And he didn’t flinch. Not once. He stood and took it. Your grief. Your anger. Your devastation. Every ugly, raw piece of it. He held you like you were sacred even while you struck him like a curse. His arms opened for you, and then folded in, pulling you close, burying you in the scent and warmth and solidity you thought you’d lost forever. His chest against your cheek. His hand on the back of your head. His breath shaking like yours.
He didn’t say you were being unfair. He didn’t ask you to stop. He just held you like he knew exactly how much you'd needed this. How long you’d been carrying the unbearable weight of his absence. How deep your love ran if it could still bleed like this.
His voice dropped, quiet and rough with guilt. “There’s no apology that could ever make this right,” he murmured, lips pressing into the crown of your head. The kind of kiss that said I missed you. I’m sorry. I never stopped loving you. “But I’m here now. I’m here, meimei. And I swear to you. I will never leave again.”
And that was it. That was the final thread snapping.
Your body collapsed into his like it remembered this. Like it had been holding you upright against your will for too long. Your knees folded, your spine caved, your arms dropped uselessly at your sides. The last of your resistance drained out of you in silence. You sank into him completely, your forehead pressed against the worn fabric of his shirt. You could feel the beat of his heart beneath it, steady and real and infuriatingly alive.
And like he always did, like he always would, Caleb caught you. His arms cinched around you with that same unshakable surety he used to carry in his every step. As if you weighed nothing. As if carrying you had never been a burden, not even once.
And for the first time since the fire, since the casket, since the silence—you weren’t alone anymore.
Your hand moved before your mind did. Trembling, hesitant, like it wasn’t yours. You reached for him slowly, painfully slowly, as if you thought he’d vanish the moment your skin touched his. But he didn’t. He stayed. Still as breath, eyes locked on you, like he knew exactly what this moment meant. Your fingertips brushed his cheek. It was warm, solid, and real. And you broke into another soft cry, a gasp that caught in your throat as you cradled his face with both hands. Your thumb dragged over the curve of his jaw like it was holy. It was only then, as you truly looked at him, that you noticed what he was wearing. His uniform. The dark, heavy, and unmistakable collar of a Farspace Fleet colonel. The silver pins, dulled with time and soot. It hung on him like armor, like he had never taken it off, like he had marched through hell still clutching his command. Still trying to come home to you.
But he was real. Alive. Breathing. And somehow still him.
The sharp lines of his face were older now, harsher maybe. His features carved by time and something much crueler than war. But under all of it, he was still your Caleb. You could see it in the slope of his brow, the tension in his mouth, the way his shoulders dipped slightly like he always had space saved for you there. The only difference now was the light in his eyes, dulled, dimmed, mirroring your own. Like he’d been grieving right alongside you, even from wherever he’d disappeared to.
Your breath hitched. “Gege,” you whispered, your voice fraying at the edges, barely stitched together. You leaned closer, desperate to tether yourself to him, to make sense of his existence here. “Where were you?” Your forehead touched his, your tears dripping onto his skin. “Why did you leave me? Why didn’t you say something—anything—just so I knew you were still alive? I would’ve waited. I was waiting, but, why? please…”
Your words collapsed on themselves, strangled in your throat, too raw to survive.
He silenced you gently. Just a finger, soft and trembling, pressing to your lips. And then he leaned in. Pressed a kiss to the tip of your nose, slow and reverent. The kind of kiss you’d dreamed about in the lonely hours. His lips were chapped, dry from whatever nightmare he'd clawed his way out of, but they still brought warmth to your frozen skin. Like his love had never faded. Like no time had passed at all.
He held you tighter, his arms winding around you like he meant to hide you from the world. Like if he just held on long enough, the years apart would fall away and leave you two whole again.
“It’s a long story,” he murmured, voice thick, barely steady. “Maybe… not tonight. Please, Meimei. Just let me hold you like this. Let me be your shelter again. Let me take care of you, like I used to.”
You winced. It wasn’t the answer you wanted. It wasn’t enough, not after all the nights you begged the silence for a sign, any sign that he was still out there. But when you opened your mouth to protest, nothing came out. Only another breath. A soft surrender.
Because he was here. And for now, maybe that was all that mattered. Maybe the ache could wait. Maybe you didn’t need all the answers, not yet. Not if it meant staying right here, in the arms of the man who once lit your world like a sun.
You exhaled against his chest, broken and small, the sound barely a whisper between the space of your ribs. Your fingers curled tighter into the fabric of his uniform like a child clinging to a safety net. You didn’t want to let go—no, you couldn’t. Not when you’d waited months, buried prayers under your pillow like coins, begged every star, cried until your lungs were empty. Not when you had already grieved him a hundred different ways. And now here he was, warm and real and holding you like nothing had changed. But everything had.
Still, he stayed. Not just stayed, he held you, fiercely, lovingly, with a kind of reverence that belonged to sacred things. And for a moment, in his arms, you almost forgot the parts of you that had rotted. The parts that had broken. The parts you’d tried to bury beneath strangers and silence.
“Meimei...” he whispered, voice raw as the callouses on his fingers, both hands rising to cradle your face like you were something delicate and divine. His thumbs swept gently beneath your eyes, as if he could erase the damage. “You are as beautiful as the day I lost you.”
His words struck softly at first. A warmth. A tenderness. The kind that made old wounds throb in ways they shouldn’t. You looked up at him, caught in the sincerity blooming behind his eyes. There was a shimmer there, faint, but real, like starlight catching on deep water. The way he used to look at you. Like you were his gravity. Like you made staying in this world bearable.
But something in you recoiled.
Beautiful? Your lips parted, but no sound came. The ache welled up too quickly. Your gaze dropped, shoulders stiffening beneath his hands. Suddenly, his embrace felt too kind, too generous, too undeserved. Because how could he say that? After everything? After what you’d let yourself become?
Your hands drifted off his chest, as if even touching him now felt wrong. As if your fingertips didn’t deserve the warmth of his body. Shame rushed through you in a cold wave, pooling in your chest, turning your breath shallow. You pulled away from him without thinking, slow at first, then faster, until your body slumped back against the floor, palms pressing down hard to steady your spiraling.
He blinked. “Meimei...?” His voice cracked with concern, already moving toward you again.
You flinched.
It wasn’t violent. It wasn’t loud. Just a subtle, instinctive twitch. A recoil, like something inside your skin had remembered pain before your mind could stop it. The moment his hand reached for your hair, something in your chest twisted and shut. You pulled back without even meaning to, and he froze in place. You watched it flicker in his expression, confusion, heartbreak, a silent question dancing behind his wide eyes.
That same hand. That same hand that once braided stars into your hair. That used to twist tiny ribbons into your locks before school, soft and patient, whispering sweet praises just to see you giggle. The hand that would stroke your head when you had a fever, or twirl your strands between his fingers when you were curled up beside him, reading on lazy afternoons. Now it hovered. Uncertain. Shaking slightly in the dim light. Like it didn’t know if it still had permission.
And how could it?
How could you explain the weight crawling beneath your scalp? The way your hair, your crown, your pride, your softest part, had turned foreign to you. You used to care for it. You used to wear it like armor. Now it was dull and dry, no matter how much conditioner you scrubbed through it this morning. No shine. No softness. Frayed ends, brittle strands. You had stopped brushing it some days. You had stopped looking at it in the mirror.
Because it wasn’t just hair anymore. It was memory. And worse—it was evidence.
Of the hands that had grabbed it. Pulled it. Twisted it in moments you didn’t even fully remember. Of the nights you spent letting strangers touch you just so you didn’t have to think, just so you could pretend for one second that it was him. The way their breath had burned your neck, their mouths had bruised your skin and none of them had loved you. Not one. They just wanted your body. Just wanted your hair in their grip.
And now he was here. He was here. And the shame roared so loudly inside you that your ears rang. You clenched your fingers into the floor beneath you, hard, hard enough to feel something. Your throat closed tight. The tears came, silent and hot, slipping past your lashes and trailing down your face like they were trying to escape too.
“I—” you started, but your voice betrayed you. It cracked, broke, vanished.
You didn’t need to say anything. Not really. Because it was all over your face, your body, your breath. It seeped out of your pores like blood from a wound too deep to stitch.
Disgust.
Disgust for what you’d become. For what you’d let happen. For the pieces of you that still reeked of loneliness, of survival, of guilt.
And most of all, disgust for daring to sit in front of him like this, to let him look at you with love, when you were nothing but a ruin of the girl he remembered.
You couldn’t meet his eyes. Because you weren’t her anymore. Not the girl he loved. Not the girl he held like a prayer in his hands. You were just the shell that stayed behind.
A ghost wearing her skin.
“I’m not who I used to be, gege.” The words slipped out as quiet as a dying star. You were barely aware they’d left your lips until the echo of them settled between you. Your hands moved without permission, clenching your chest, digging hard into the bones under your skin, trying to grasp something real, something alive inside you. You hit yourself there, once, twice. Not to hurt. Just to prove you still could.
But he didn’t flinch. He just stood there, absorbing you, with a softness that was worse than any violence. He looked at you like he felt everything you couldn’t say. And that made it worse. That made it unbearable. You twisted your face away like it would protect you, like shielding yourself from his gaze would keep the truth from leaking out.
“I don’t deserve you,” you rasped, voice gravel. “Not anymore. Not after what I did to myself… to what we had. To you.”
He stepped forward, the floor creaking beneath his boots. You felt your heart thud hard once, then twice, warning you. You moved backward, legs nearly buckling, knees knocking together. You stumbled until the wall met your spine, unrelenting, and you stopped there, spine bowed like a punished thing. You wanted to disappear.
His scent hit you first—calm, familiar, the same mixture of leather, dust, and cold metal that used to make you feel safe. But now it made you want to scream. It cut through the warm aroma of food still lingering in the air, overpowered every other sensation in your body.
And then came his hands. Strong, sure, and reaching.
“Baby,” he said, and the word cracked something open in you like a blade drawn slow. “I don’t care what you did to yourself. I don’t care if you lost yourself when I was gone.”
You watched his face twist around the word gone, like saying it made him bleed.
“All I care about is that you’re here. That you’re still breathing. That I get to hold you.”
He reached again, and this time his hand found yours, enclosing it in his warmth. His thumb swept across your knuckles with such gentle purpose that your breath caught. His other hand rose, the back of it brushing your cheek with something too soft to handle. You couldn’t bear it. You didn’t want it. You wanted to earn that touch again, but you didn’t know how.
“Don’t do that,” you whispered. “Don’t touch me like that.”
“Why?” His voice broke. “Why not?”
“Because it hurts.”
You yanked your hand free, and he let it go, but only barely. He watched you like you were shattering, and he had no clue where to hold you that wouldn’t break you further.
“Why, Caleb?” You were shaking now, like every word drained your blood.
Your hands pressed to his chest, palms flat, and you pushed, not enough to move him, but enough to show him how close you were to breaking. You wanted him to feel it. To feel the betrayal wrapped in every heartbeat.
“Why did you leave me?” you asked, and the words were no longer just words, they were a wound torn open, trembling on your lips, spilling with the ache of months you couldn’t count anymore. Your voice frayed at the edges, thin and wild, like the thread of a kite lost to the wind. “Why would you let me rot? Why would you let me wither like that, thinking you were dead, thinking I’d lost you forever when I needed you the most?”
You shoved at him again, fists curled, knuckles catching against the firm lines of his chest. But the force was gone now, lost somewhere between the breaking point of your body and the collapse of your will. Your arms folded into themselves, your fingers curling tight around the brass buttons of his uniform like they were the only things keeping you from falling apart completely. They were warm from his body. Real. But even that didn’t help. You couldn’t hold yourself upright anymore, not under the weight of everything you’d carried.
Your knees trembled. Your shoulders caved in.
Your chin dropped as tears pulled down your cheeks—hot, full-bodied things that you didn’t even try to hide. Your lips parted to breathe, but no air came. Your chest was too full of grief to let anything else in.
“Where were you,” you whispered, and your face crumpled like paper. “When I begged for you? When I screamed your name until my throat bled?”
Your eyes squeezed shut, brows drawing together so hard it hurt. Your hands came to your own arms, clutching them like you were trying to keep your insides from spilling out.
“When I clawed at my own skin just to feel something, anything?”
Your voice cracked, high and sharp. It sounded like it came from a girl you no longer recognized, a version of yourself that had been drowning for months. The sound echoed in the space between you, bounced off the walls like it didn’t know where else to go.
You leaned forward, your forehead pressing into his chest for just a second. One trembling second. You wanted to disappear there, hide your face in the fabric that still smelled like him, still held the memory of his strength. But the shame was louder. So you pulled away again, breath stuttering, hands flying to cover your face like you could erase it, undo it, un-say it.
“Where were you…” your voice collapsed in on itself, but you kept speaking anyway, voice shaking apart syllable by syllable. “When I let men I don’t even remember touch me… just to pretend I was still alive?”
Your hands dropped. You looked at him. No shields. No filters. Just raw, ruined honesty.
“When I tried to chase the ghost of your hands, your voice, your warmth? When I let myself break,” your voice cracked again, “because living without you made no sense?”
Your cheeks were wet. Your lips trembling. The expression on your face was devastation itself, eyes wide and glassy, lips parted like they were mid-prayer, jaw clenched against the shuddering ache that rippled through you in waves.
You stared at him. Broken open. Like a body that had been trying to hold itself together for far too long.
And he just looked back at you, like you were still the girl he remembered. Like you were still worth falling on his knees for. Still his.
“Why now?” you breathed, voice so small, it nearly disappeared between you. “Why come back now, when I’m already ruined?”
Your voice didn’t echo this time.
It just sank. Like the truth always does.
The silence stretched like centuries. It bent the air between you, pressing down on your lungs until breathing felt like an indulgence. Neither of you spoke. Not yet. Because there were no words sharp enough to cut through what had been done. Only the crushing weight of what still lingered.
He held you tighter, arms wound around you like iron vines, like he was trying to mold your broken body into his chest—like he could undo the time lost just by clutching you close. His eyes were hollow. Distant. Still beautiful, still his, but dulled now, as if time had carved something out of him too. And despite it all, despite every part of your mind screaming otherwise, your body folded into him like it was natural. Like it was instinct. Like your grief-shaped silhouette had been carved to fit him all along.
But it hurt. God, it hurt.
The pain was not just the memory of losing him, it was this. The pain of reuniting. Of finding him here, warm and whole and holding you like he hadn’t shattered your life. Like he hadn’t disappeared and let you rot in the silence of his absence. You would rather be stabbed a thousand times, again and again, than feel this exact ache. Because you couldn’t name it. It wasn’t just sorrow. Or relief. Or fury. It was all of it. It was betrayal wrapped in love, longing tangled in rage.
Was it cruelty? That he let you believe he was gone, when he wasn’t?
Was it selfishness? That he came back now, without warning, slotting himself back into your story like the missing page of a book already burned?
Your body trembled in his hold, but you didn’t pull away. Not yet. His warmth was a weapon and a comfort, and you were too tired to tell the difference.
“Meimei…” he whispered, voice like smoke curling through the wreckage. He leaned in, pressing his lips against your temple. The intimacy of it cracked something deep in your chest. You didn’t flinch, not this time. You just sat there, still and shaking, inside the cocoon of his arms.
His breath was ragged when he finally spoke.
“Nothing,” he said, voice hoarse, like it hurt to even speak. “No excuse I could ever give will make it right. I lied to you. I let you mourn me. I let you rot with grief, while I breathed somewhere else. While I lived.”
Each word dropped like a stone in your gut, splashing against the hollow spaces inside you. You could feel the dam breaking behind his voice, his composure trembling, splintering under the weight of it. Still, his arms wound tighter around you, desperate, almost bruising now, as though he could will the damage undone if only he held you close enough.
You choked on the scent of him. Leather. Salt. A little ozone, like the storm had followed him inside. You could barely breathe, your nose stuffed from crying, your lungs clawing at the air, but his grip kept you tethered. Grounded. Real. Cruel, but real. Like an old wound pressed just to make sure the feeling hadn’t gone numb.
He exhaled, slow. Broken. “And I have my reasons…”
The words slithered through the cracks in your chest. And that was it.
That was it.
Rage ignited beneath your ribs. A white-hot tremor that raced up your spine and shook loose everything you’d buried. You pushed against him, fingers digging into the collar of his coat, pulling, clawing, anything to peel him off of you, to make space to breathe again. But he didn’t let go. He didn’t even flinch. And the worst part, the part that made you want to scream, was that somewhere, deep down, you didn’t want him to let go.
“I know you can’t accept it,” he murmured, a quiet thing, resigned. “But please… know this.” He reached for your face again, and your whole body went still. His gloved hand tilted your chin up with unbearable gentleness, like he was touching something sacred. Your gaze collided with his.
And you were undone.
His eyes were oceans. Bruised with sorrow, rimmed with guilt, glowing with the unmistakable gleam of you. He looked at you like you were still his. Like even now, even wrecked and ruined and far from the girl he remembered, you were still worth crossing the universe for.
“I did it for you,” he said, softer than a breath. “For your safety. The moment they took control of me… I was no longer a free man. I was theirs.”
You blinked. And the tears came again, uninvited. Your mouth opened, but there were no words to carry the pain. Only silence. Only disbelief. You were shaking again, from exhaustion, from the storm inside you, from him.
“But I swore…” he continued, his voice nearly splitting at the seams. “The moment I could escape, truly escape, I would find you again. I would come back and make it right. I promised myself that.”
His forehead met yours, the weight of him leaning into you like a prayer returned.
“I promise you, now. Meimei. Please…”
You could feel his breath ghosting across your lips. His gloves cupped your cheeks again, brushing at the endless tears, trying to soothe wounds he couldn’t see. And you hated it. Hated how good it felt. Hated how easily your body melted against his hands, how your skin remembered him even when your mind begged it to forget. You didn’t know what you were anymore. But you knew this, even your ghost ached for him.
Your trembling fingers rose, clutching at his hands like lifelines. You stared at him through the blur of tears and quiet devastation.
“Gloves,” you whispered, the word barely there. “Gege… gloves off. Please. Let me feel you.”
Your voice cracked, thinned by desperation, by need. Because you needed to know. With your own hands, your own skin. That he was here. Not just a memory, not just a dream. Not the ghost you chased through strangers’ arms and empty nights. But skin, blood, bone, and truly Caleb.
He froze, stilled like your words had struck something raw inside him. Then, with a slow nod, he reached for his gloves. The movement was soft, as if even undressing in front of you now carried the weight of ceremony. He peeled the leather back finger by finger, slow drags across his skin. The sound was quiet, the kind that almost didn’t exist, but you heard it. You felt it. The slide of grief. The echo of absence. And then he offered them to you, his bare hands, palms up, trembling just enough to betray the ache behind his eyes.
You reached without thinking. Then stopped. Just a breath away. Your fingers trembled in the space between. Hovering. Wanting. But unable to land. And then retreat. Your hand curled back to your chest like you’d touched fire.
You shook your head, violently. Tears welling fast again, heavier now, heavier than your body could carry. Your spine curled forward. “No,” you whispered, as if saying it might undo everything. “No, no—I can’t. I thought I wanted. I did, but…”
Your voice cracked apart. Your knees buckled beneath you, and you folded, sinking back against the floor, your shoulder blades pressed to the cold wall like it could anchor you in place. “If I touch you, I’ll believe it’s real. I’ll believe you’re here. And I don’t think I can survive that.”
Your hands pressed against your mouth, trying to dam the sobs. But they came anyway. Ragged. Involuntary. Your whole body began to shake. “I’m not ready,” you croaked. “I’m not who I was, gege. I’m not the girl you loved. I don’t even know what’s left of her. I’m just…”
You didn’t finish. You couldn’t.
And he didn’t speak, not at first. Just stayed where he was. His hands, still bare, still outstretched, waiting.
But something in his shoulders broke then. You saw it. A slump, like he was caving in on himself. And his mouth parted like he might say something, but the words drowned before they could surface. Instead, his thumb twitched, like it wanted to reach for you. Like his body ached to close the distance, but didn’t dare.
The silence between you throbbed. So full of love. So full of ruin.
“You don’t have to be ‘her,’ Meimei,” he said at last.
His voice was barely above a whisper, but it settled into you like gravity, pulling everything in. There was no demand in it, no edge. Just a soft declaration, spoken with the kind of steadiness that only comes from a love long-lived and long-lost. His arms folded around you again, not like a claim, but a promise. Not a grasp, but a homecoming.
He held you like he’d memorized the exact shape of you. Like he was afraid to press too hard and shatter whatever pieces remained. His warmth bled through the layers of your clothes, his heartbeat thudding slow and real against your ribs, steadying your breath even as yours stuttered and caught.
“I love you,” he said, slower this time, as if he was laying each word carefully between your ribs. “Whatever you’ve become, whatever you've been through… I will love you through all of it. You don’t need to earn it. You don’t need to go back to anything.”
He pulled back only enough to look at you, and the expression on his face, gods , the softness of it nearly undid you. There was no pity there. No judgment. Just longing, quiet and endless, the kind that hummed behind his eyes and lived in the lines of his face. He studied you like someone rediscovering their favorite book, weathered, worn, but still cherished beyond words. His fingertips, bare and shaking, brushed the curve of your cheek with unbearable gentleness, a hesitant reverence, like he was learning the new contours of your grief-lined face and loving it anyway.
“If you can’t see yourself,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “then let me. Let me see for you. Let me hold the parts of you that feel too sharp to touch. Let me take the pain you can’t carry anymore.”
His hands cupped your jaw, the weight of them grounding, holy. His thumb traced the hollow beneath your eye, smudging a tear with such care it hurt. And still— still —he looked at you like you were something beloved, like he never stopped praying to the shape of your name.
“I want to be the one who stays,” he whispered, voice cracking. “I want to be the place you rest when the world is too loud. Let me carry you when you forget how to stand. Let me earn you again, if I have to. Let me love you again, the way you deserve to be loved.”
And then he simply stayed there, holding you in that silence. Not rushing. Not coaxing. Just breathing. Just waiting for you to believe it.
Your breath slowed, just barely. The fight drained from your muscles in waves, little tremors easing out, like tension remembered and released. You were still curled in on yourself, still coiled like something waiting to snap. But his voice didn’t demand anything of you. It didn’t push. It didn’t prod. It only offered. Again and again. A quiet, steady presence in a world that had taken everything from you.
You didn’t answer him right away. You couldn’t . But your fingers relaxed their grip on your thighs. Your shoulders stopped shaking. You leaned into the space between you like a tired wave lapping the shore, testing if the sand would still hold.
He didn’t move. He waited.
And maybe that was what softened you. Not words. Not warmth. But patience. The kind you thought no one had left for you. The kind Caleb had always given when you broke before.
You lifted your eyes, just enough to see him sitting there, knees nearly brushing yours, hands open in his lap, palms up like he was offering a prayer. Like he wasn’t asking you to fix anything. Just to stay. Your lip trembled. You hated how easy it was to let your weight tip forward, to let your forehead fall against his shoulder. But you did it anyway. Slowly. Shamefully. Like a sinner crawling back to the altar.
“I’m tired, gege,” you whispered.
And it was the truth. More honest than anything you’d said in months.
“I’m tired of waiting for you, gege. Please,” your voice cracked, fragile, soft as a breath drawn through glass, “will you hold me again? Not the me before. The broken me now?”
And there it was, your collapse, spoken and real. The naked truth trembling out of your throat like it cost you something sacred. You tore yourself apart on the altar of that confession, reaching for him like he was both your penance and your salvation. You crawled into his arms not gracefully, but with the desperation of a soul unraveling.
And Caleb— Caleb folded around you like he’d been waiting his whole life to do so.
His arms looped tight, a gentle force, anchoring you. His cheek pressed against the top of your head, and he breathed you in, like you were the only air left in the galaxy. He didn’t speak at first. He just held you. Like he’d finally been given permission to touch something he thought he’d lost forever.
“Please rewrite me, gege,” you whispered into his chest, your fingers fisting the front of his uniform like it would dissolve if you let go. “Please fill me with so much love I get sick of you. Please trap me in it. Jail me in it. You know what’s best for me. And I trust you with my whole life.”
The silence that followed was devastating. He pulled back just enough to look at you, both hands rising to frame your face with reverence, like you were some ancient, delicate text he’d forgotten how to read. His thumbs brushed your cheeks, not to wipe away the tears, just to feel them. Just to witness them.
His eyes widened, then softened. And his voice, when it came, was thick with the same ache that had broken you moments ago.
“Yes, my love. I will.” He kissed your forehead. “Thank you…” Another kiss, this time to your temple. “…for trusting me.”
A kiss just below your eye.
“And for having me back.”
Then he just held you again. Tighter this time. Not like something fragile.
Like something his .
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The room quieted around you, as if the whole world had taken one long breath and decided not to let it go. No ticking clocks. No wind brushing past windows. Just the soft hum of the lights above, and the inhale and exhale of two hearts trying to remember how to beat in tandem again. There were no words. Just the quiet aftermath of love surviving a war it barely won. Love warming the edges of your wounds, after tearing through you like a thousand knives.
You stayed pressed to him, chest to chest, your cheek resting against the tender hollow where his shoulder met his collarbone. You could hear everything, his breathing, slow and deep, and his heartbeat, strong beneath his skin. Real. Grounding. His hand moved along your back in slow, gentle motions—not to push, not to soothe, just to remind you, I’m here. It was a rhythm, a soft tempo, like something your body had long forgotten but recognized instantly. Like home.
You didn’t know how long you stayed there, wrapped in each other like that. Time wasn’t something you could count anymore, not when he was touching you like this. His fingers threaded through the ends of your hair, soft, steady, and familiar. Like he was memorizing you again. Like he was anchoring himself back into the body of the girl he once loved.
Eventually, he shifted. Just slightly. Just enough to glance down at you, and in that single motion, your heart leapt. You instinctively pulled him closer, arms tightening like your soul didn’t trust this peace to last.
“Nooooo, don’t let go, gege” you whispered against his chest, your voice barely more than a breath, thinned with sleepiness and a desperate kind of need.
Then, he laughed. Softly. Low. It rumbled in his chest beneath your ear, and you felt it before you even heard it. That sound. That sound. It bloomed through your ribs like sunlight cracking through storm clouds. You hadn’t heard that laugh in so long it felt like a myth. Like something your heart made up just to survive.
And oh, how much you missed it.
That laugh—gentle, unpolished, sometimes breathy, sometimes full-bodied. The one that used to echo down the hallway when you told him dumb jokes just to hear it. The one that softened your worst days, that used to fill the small spaces between you two when words ran dry. It wasn’t just sound. It was safety. It was warmth. It was him. It used to make you feel like the world couldn’t be all bad if someone like Caleb still laughed like that. Like love itself had a voice, and it came from his throat.
And now, hearing it again?
You bit down a sob, the ache almost too much. Because it reminded you of everything, of the time he spun you in the kitchen while dinner burned, of the way he pressed kisses to your forehead while laughing at your sleepy pouts, of how he’d fall onto the couch beside you and just laugh and laugh until you couldn’t help but join in.
It brought everything back.
And it undid you, softly.
His laughter faded, not into silence, but into something softer, something glowing at the edges. It left the air warmer than before. And when it did, you felt the world still again. Your breath slowed, tangled in his. The weight in your chest didn’t vanish, but it settled, less like a wound, more like a scar being kissed. Then, after a long, quiet moment, he murmured into your hair, voice as gentle as the hum of a lullaby.
“Can I show you something?”
Your breath hitched at the change in tone. There was a quiet excitement tucked beneath the warmth, like he’d been waiting for the right moment to ask. Not pushing. Not demanding. Just offering. You leaned back slightly, reluctantly, your arms still curled around his ribs like you weren’t quite ready to let go. He smiled, just a little, his hand brushing a few strands of your hair behind your ear, fingers lingering longer than necessary.
“It’s nothing big,” he added, soft and unsure. “Just something I kept with me. For you.”
Your brows knit in the slightest, and you nodded, lips parting to speak but no words forming. Instead, you watched as he reached behind the couch, pulling forward a weather-worn bag you hadn’t even noticed before. It looked traveled, scuffed and old, but carefully kept. He unzipped it with quiet hands.
Your arms dropped to your lap, watching with the kind of stillness that came with holding your breath. He pulled out a bundle. Neatly folded. Wrapped in soft tissue. He cradled it like it meant something, like it had weight. He turned to face you fully, offering it with both hands.
“I had this made. Thought of you the whole time.” His gaze flicked between you and the bundle. “Helped design it, chose everything for you. I… I wanted to give it to you sooner. But—”
He didn’t finish that thought. He didn’t need to. You reached out, fingers trembling slightly, and took the package from him. The fabric was light. Silky under your palms. Familiar in a way that made your stomach twist. You peeled the tissue back slowly.
And there it was.
A dress. Baby blue. Delicate sparkles caught in the light like stars suspended in frozen water. The satin ribbons at the shoulders were black, gentle contrast, elegant. The bodice shimmered faintly with soft embroidery, stitched with care, soft silver threads tracing subtle patterns you couldn’t name. It was the kind of dress you used to love. The kind he always said made you look like a storybook dream. Innocent, ethereal. Like something worth holding.
Your lips parted. You couldn’t breathe for a second.
“It’s…” you began, but no word followed.
Caleb smiled again, smaller this time. “There’s more.”
He reached back into the bag and pulled out another bundle, this one larger. He unwrapped it quickly and held it up for you to see.
A matching jacket. His . Sleek, storm-blue silk, star pins on the lapel, light silver embroidery around the cuffs. A softened version of his colonel uniform, fitted and tailored. The stars shimmered, the faintest threads of the same baby blue sewn into the lining.
Your eyes widened.
“I wanted us to match,” he said quietly. “Like we used to.”
He didn’t say it like a joke. He said it like a promise. Something in your chest collapsed, slow and aching. You pressed the dress to your chest like it was fragile, like holding it too tightly would break it. Would break you. You looked up at him with trembling lips, unshed tears catching in your lashes. And he was already watching you, eyes gentle and shining. Like this mattered more to him than anything else in the universe.
“Gege… it’s so beautiful. I have no words, I—” Your voice faltered, cracking somewhere between your ribs and throat. The rest of the sentence withered before it even left your mouth. You clutched the fabric tighter to your chest, fingertips pressing into the delicate weave of baby blue as your breath trembled, shaky and uneven. Your lashes fluttered, wet. It wasn’t the first time he’d gifted you something like this. No, he’d always had a way of making you feel seen. Special. Cherished. But this was different. This was after death. After the end. After grief had mangled the part of your heart that once believed he’d ever come back. And now, standing here, holding a piece of him in your arms again, it shattered you all over.
“Shh, meimei,” he cooed, voice low, warm like honey melting against winter skin. “My cute, lovely little sister.” His knees bent in front of you, his towering frame lowering just to meet your gaze. He always did that, always came to your level when your heart hid in the dark. His hands, large and steady, reached up to your cheeks, brushing away the tears that had fallen anew. His thumbs smoothed beneath your eyes, not with urgency, but reverence. “It’s all for you,” he murmured. “If you like it… would you do me a little favor? Try it on for me. Let me see you in it. Just once. Give me a twirl later, yeah?”
You couldn’t speak. Your throat closed around the gratitude, the ache. You wanted to tell him a thousand things, how much this meant, how undeserving you felt, how broken you still were, but the words refused to form. Instead, your body moved before your voice could. You set the dress aside with care, like it was made of starlight, and reached for him. Your arms wrapped around his neck, clinging, small and tender, your weight pressing forward as you rose to your toes. It was a silent ask. A gesture you’d done a hundred times when words felt too big: lift me.
He chuckled, his chest vibrating softly under your cheek, and the sound rippled through you like rain on drought-starved soil. You felt the strength of his arms move, one wrapping behind your back, the other dipping low to support your thighs. And then, with that easy, familiar strength, he lifted you into the air like you were weightless.
“A-ah,” you gasped softly, startled by the sudden motion. He grinned against your hair, his voice dipping low and teasing, yet wrapped in unshakable devotion. “You did so many things without me, meimei,” he whispered, holding you close, “but from now on… rely on your big brother again, alright? I won’t ever— ever —leave you behind again.”
And for the first time in months, maybe years, you believed him.
Your arms wrapped tighter around his neck. Your fingers curled against the fabric of his jacket. For a fleeting, golden second, you let yourself dream. Maybe it could be like before. Maybe tomorrow, you would wake up tangled in his warmth again, sunlight spilling onto his cheekbones, your palm resting against the steady rise of his chest. Maybe he would hold you to his body in the morning and brush lazy kisses across your knuckles before cooking your favorite meal. Maybe you could want to live again.
He laughed, that same laugh you’d missed like oxygen, and it brought you back to the moment. He reached for the dress you had set down with care, cradling it in one arm as he carried you across the room. The fabric fluttered between his fingers like it belonged to some sacred ritual.
“Dress prettily for me, my love,” he said as he lowered you in front of the bathroom door, his voice sweet and playful. “And maybe , if you behave, I’ll do your hair too. Just like before.”
He bent forward to kiss your temple, lips soft and unhurried, like pressing that kiss into you was his way of sealing you back into the world. You closed your eyes. The warmth lingered longer than it should have.
“I’ll be outside,” he added, stepping away slowly. “Call me if you need anything.”
But just as he turned to leave, you reached out, your fingers instinctively curling around the hem of his sleeve. The tug was small. Barely a whisper of movement. But he felt it instantly. He turned, eyes widening in gentle surprise.
“Oh?” he said, a smirk dancing at the corners of his lips. “So you do want me to help dress you. Want me to baby you again, hmm?”
God, he was insufferable.
You glared weakly, your hand falling away with exaggerated flair. But instead of scolding him, instead of launching into some halfhearted insult, all you could do was smile. The kind of smile that trembled at the edges. The kind that only came when you were so full of emotion it leaked out the corners of your mouth. A soft flush bloomed over your cheeks, pink rising beneath your skin like dawn. You looked away, voice low, clumsy with affection and embarrassment.
“Fuck you, ge.”
He laughed again, short and warm and full of mischief. “Suit yourself, my love.”
And then he left, the door shutting quietly behind him.
Leaving you with the dress. And the mirror. And the fragile beginnings of hope.
You looked at yourself in the mirror again, and then at the dress you held like a secret. There was something holy about it, too gentle, too pure, too delicately made for the kind of girl you were now. The fabric shimmered faintly in the warm bathroom light, kissed with a soft iridescence that caught on every thread. Tiny crystals embroidered at the waist caught the glow like stars. The hem danced with gossamer layers, weightless and pristine. You touched it hesitantly, fingers brushing along the bodice like it might bruise under your skin. It was beautiful. Unapologetically so.
Too beautiful for you.
A lump rose in your throat as the thought settled like dust on your shoulders. You weren’t worthy of it. Not anymore. Not after everything. The way you’d let yourself fall apart. The way you hadn’t cared for your body, your hair, your heart. This dress was made with gentleness, with intention, it had been chosen by him. Sewn with care, touched by dreams. And here you were, ruined. Disheveled. A ghost of the girl who used to wear light like second skin. You had no right to something so soft.
But still… he gave it to you.
Not just gave. Worshipped. His voice still echoed in your chest, his praise, his devotion. The way he looked at you like you were the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, not despite your pain, but because of it. Like you were something to be cherished, not pitied. Loved, still. You held the dress close to your chest and exhaled slowly, clutching the fabric like it might ground you. You didn’t want to wrinkle it. Didn’t want to taint it. For him. For the way his eyes had softened when he asked you to wear it. You didn’t want to let him down.
You turned to the mirror again and began to undress. One piece at a time, your clothes slipped from your shoulders, pooling around your ankles with barely a sound. You tried not to look at the mirror. You knew what was there. The marks, faint but lingering, mapped along your skin like old bruises on a porcelain doll. Memories of hands that weren’t his. Scars of nights you wished you could erase. You squeezed your eyes shut, breath catching in your throat, and stepped into the dress.
The fabric whispered against your skin as you lifted it, pulled it over your hips, adjusted the bodice. You reached back, fingers fumbling to zip it closed, the pull tight across your ribs, like the dress was learning how to fit someone so changed. You paused once it was fastened, hands resting against the sink. Your lashes fluttered open, heavy with reluctance.
And you saw it.
The contrast was stark. The glittering dress wrapped you in light, but your skin was still marked, red, tender, bruised in places memory hadn’t let go of. The neckline dipped low enough to show the places you wanted hidden. Your shoulders, your collarbones. It all looked too wrong. The dress was lovely. Ethereal. And you… were not.
You dropped your gaze, hands gripping the edge of the counter until your knuckles blanched. You weren’t supposed to cry again. Not now. You had to calm yourself down. You had to be strong for him. He’d given you this gift. He wanted you to feel beautiful. Wanted you to be his again, even like this. And it was his birthday. You could at least do this for him. Smile. Try.
Then came the knock.
“Baby?” Caleb’s voice, low and tinged with worry, filtered through the door. “You okay over there?”
You startled, head snapping toward the sound. Your heart jumped painfully in your chest. Shit, had you been too long? Had he thought something happened? You scrambled for composure, for breath, but before you could answer, the door creaked open just slightly. A sliver of warm light flooded in from the living room. His silhouette filled the doorway. And then his eyes found yours.
Time froze.
His breath hitched. You watched it leave him, slow and silent, as his gaze swept over you like it was the first time he’d ever seen you. The air between you tightened, thick with unspoken things. His eyes darkened, not with anger, but with something deeper. Something raw. His hands came forward, hesitant at first, then bolder. He stepped close, one arm slipping around your shoulders, and the other lifted to cradle the nape of your neck.
And then, slowly, he pressed his forehead to the curve of your shoulder. His breath fanned against your skin.
“You look…” he whispered, as if afraid to break the moment, “amazing, meimei.”
You shivered in his hold, trembling like a candle caught in its own warmth. His words weren’t spoken with hunger, or even desire. They were spoken with awe. With heartbreak. Like he couldn’t believe you were still here. Like seeing you, dressed in something he’d chosen for you, still willing to wear softness, was too much.
He didn’t move for a long time.
And neither did you.
Because in that quiet, trembling space between your bodies, there was something sacred being stitched back together.
“No, I don’t, gege. Stop lying.”
The words came out low and tight between your teeth, like they’d been festering for days, months, years. Your hands curled into fists at your sides, trembling not with fury, but with something far more fragile. Shame. You couldn’t bear to look at him again, not after spitting out what you knew was your truth. But before you could turn your head away fully, his hand was already there, gentle but firm, his fingers curling beneath your jaw, tilting your face back toward him like he couldn’t allow even this small act of retreat.
His eyes locked onto yours, dark and storming, his brows drawn together with something bordering on fury. But it wasn’t you he was angry at. It never was.
“Whoever said you were ugly,” he said, his voice cold as metal, “I’ll kill him for you, meimei.”
The threat wasn’t just a threat. It was a promise. Spoken not with dramatics, but with absolute certainty. His tone sent a shiver rushing down your spine, not from fear, but from the ache of being defended so fiercely, so completely, by the man who had once held your heart like a fragile bird. Your gaze dropped again, unable to withstand the sincerity that poured off of him in waves. Why does he love you? You had asked yourself this every night. You weren’t the kind of girl who belonged to someone like him. You weren’t soft or brilliant or elegant. You were just this . The leftover mess of someone who once knew joy.
But he wouldn’t let you slip into that thought.
“You always look beautiful to me, meimei,” he whispered, and this time, his voice was velvet. “No matter what you look like. Even now, in this moment, you look like something ethereal, like you fell from a dream I haven’t woken up from yet.”
He leaned in then, slow and sure, until his lips hovered just above the curve of your ear. His breath fanned across your skin and sent goosebumps down the length of your arms.
“You have no idea how long I’ve been holding myself back,” he murmured, low and teasing and utterly sincere. “How many nights I imagined this moment, imagined you like this. I want to ravish you right here, right now, but I won’t. Not until you want it too.”
Your breath hitched. The heat bloomed in your chest, down to your thighs, curling low in your belly like something dangerous and tender all at once. His voice always had that effect on you, when he meant it. When he really, truly meant it. And he did. You could feel it in the weight of his words, in the reverence in his tone. There was no mockery here. No manipulation. Only love, aching and endless.
And then his arms opened again, and you fell into them like you were made to. He stroked your hair with aching patience, running his fingers slowly through the tangle of neglected strands. The gesture was so instinctual, so familiar, it almost hurt more than it soothed. You remembered this. His hands in your hair. The way he used to hum tunelessly while braiding it in the mornings. The way he used to call it his favorite part of you, his crown jewel. But now, his fingers snagged on knots, tiny, silent catches that stung more than they should have.
You winced.
He paused. “Your ends,” he said softly, voice folding in on itself like paper, “they’re so dry. Haven’t you been taking care of them, meimei?” He didn’t sound judgmental, just sad. Like he was asking not about your hair, but your heart.
You tried to respond, but no words came. Only silence. Only shame.
“Have you run out of the products I gave you?” he continued, his fingers still threading with delicate insistence. “I thought I stocked you at least a few bottles…”
The question broke you in a small, quiet way. Because the truth was worse than that. You hadn’t run out. You had simply stopped. Stopped caring. Stopped believing you deserved the care.
“I…” you started, voice cracking at the edge.
But then a different idea came to you. A new beginning, perhaps.
“Gege,” you whispered. It was so soft, nearly swallowed by the hum of the bathroom light. But he heard you. He always did. His head tilted, his brow lifting gently as he waited for you to go on.
“Would you…” you swallowed. “Would you cut it shorter for me?”
The silence that followed was deafening. His body stilled. You could feel the way his breath stopped for a moment, how his hands instinctively tightened just a little on yours. His fingers slowly curled around yours, his hands enveloping yours in a quiet, prayerful clasp. He bowed his head, as if cradling the gravity of what you just asked.
“Why, meimei?” he asked, voice hushed, delicate. “Why now? You used to treasure your hair so much. Is it because it’s too much to take care of on your own? Because I can help, I will help—”
“No, gege.” You cut him off gently, but firmly. Your hand lifted to grasp a lock of your hair, holding it between your fingers. “I want to start again. I want to cut away the parts of me that don’t belong anymore. These strands… they’ve been in the hands of men who didn’t deserve them. Not the way you did.”
You looked up at him, voice trembling with shame and truth.
“I want you to be the one to rewrite me. I want you to touch only the new parts. I want to give you what’s clean. What’s mine again. I want to make new memories with you. From scratch. Please, gege…”
He didn’t answer right away.
He only looked at you, eyes wide and quietly breaking, like something precious in him had cracked open at the seams. The silence stretched between you, thick with emotion too dense to name. You could feel the shift in him, the way his shoulders sank like the weight of your words finally hit. Not like a strike, but like something slow, sinking into his bones, into the space where he’d been holding all that guilt. His lips parted. A breath slipped out. But no sound followed. Just silence, filled with everything he didn’t know how to say.
When he moved, it was careful. Like you might vanish. Like if he touched you wrong, the moment would collapse. His hands rose slowly, and then they were on your cheeks, cradling your face with such gentleness it made your throat close. His palms were warm and grounding. His thumbs brushed along your cheekbones, the edge of your mouth, trembling just slightly with how much he was holding in. Then he leaned forward, forehead pressing to yours, the closeness too much and not enough all at once. You could feel the heat of his skin, the slight tremble in his breath. You could smell the faint trace of his cologne and the sterile bite of space metal from his uniform, but underneath it all, it was still him. Still Caleb.
“You don’t have to do this for me,” he murmured, voice low, the sound of it curling around your ribs. “Not to prove anything. Not to undo what happened. You’re already enough.”
His fingers tightened ever so slightly, grounding you to this reality, to the truth of his touch. “But if this is what you want,” he continued, the words thickening in his throat, “if you want me to help you begin again… then I will treat it like it matters more than anything. Because it does. Because you do.”
Then, he kissed your forehead, slow, full of care. His lips lingered against your skin like a vow he couldn’t quite say aloud. It was tender, aching, an apology pressed into your bones. Your eyes fluttered closed just from the weight of it, how easily he disarmed you with that one small thing.
When he pulled away, he stayed close. His eyes searched yours, like he was memorizing you all over again, like he was asking if this was still okay. And when you gave the smallest nod, the answer caught in your breath, he shifted.
His hand reached for the drawer beneath the bathroom sink. The one he had used years ago, when he still brushed and trimmed your hair with methodical precision, humming while he worked. He found the scissors without looking. As if they’d been waiting. As if this moment had been waiting.
But still, he didn’t move toward you until you nodded again.
He would never take that choice from you. Never again.
You looked down.
Your fingers trembled where they gripped the edge of the counter, white-knuckled and tight, as though your body was begging you to hold onto anything. The air had gone quiet again. But not empty. It was thick, heavy, not like a silence of absence, but one of reverence. Like the space itself was holding its breath. Watching.
This wasn’t just a haircut.
It was a burial. A beginning.
You were afraid. Terrified, really. Your hair had always been more than just strands, it was memory. The last remnants of a girl who believed she could still be soft, before grief hardened her into someone else. Before his death carved something hollow in you. You clung to the counter like it could stop the flood that threatened to rise from your chest. Your legs stiffened. Your heartbeat was too loud. Your vision swam.
And then, a slow, warm finger lifted your chin, urging your face to rise from its shame. You met his eyes, reluctantly, and he was already looking. Not just at you. Into you. His expression was steady, a still lake of concern. His brows pinched slightly, not with judgment, but worry. A softness wrapped tight with restraint. As if he knew how much this would cost you.
You didn’t speak, but you gave the smallest nod, your throat closing around it. And that was all he needed.
You turned away, exposing your back to him, the vulnerability of it making your skin feel cold. The weight of your hair settled over your shoulders like a shroud. It was long, uneven in places, heavy with neglect. And still, it had been yours. It had been his, once, too. His to brush, to braid, to stroke when you fell asleep on his lap. You used to lean into that care. And now you would let him hold it again—one last time, before letting it go.
He exhaled behind you. The sound ghosted across the back of your neck. Then you felt him move.
His fingers, first, slipped through the strands to untangle them gently. Not once did he tug or pull. He worked patiently, smoothing it out with a brush he must’ve dug out of storage. You felt the pass of it down your back, again and again, until your muscles began to unwind, your grip on the counter softening. He hummed softly, absentmindedly, some old tune he used to hum while doing your hair before school. And for a second, it was like the years in between had never happened.
Then you heard the soft snip.
The first cut.
Your shoulders flinched, but you didn’t stop him. Your breath caught, a shallow inhale stuck in your throat as strands drifted down like feathers and scattered across the tiled floor. You watched them fall from the corner of your eye, shimmering ends that once touched your waist, now severed, freed. There was no turning back. And still, you didn’t want to.
The sound continued, rhythmic and soft. Scissors gliding through hair, Caleb’s fingers tilting your head this way and that with quiet precision. He moved like he was sculpting something, not trimming it. Like each cut was deliberate, intimate. His hand steadied your jaw, his other guiding the scissors through your hair as he moved around you slowly. A dance, a ritual. You didn’t speak. Neither did he. But every motion told a story.
You closed your eyes and let the sound fill you, the gentle snipping, his careful breath, the brush of his knuckles against your neck. He cut around the nape slowly, shaping you piece by piece, until the heaviness slipped away. You felt weight lift, literally and otherwise.
When he was done, his hands slowed. You could feel him hesitate, then one more soft stroke down your back with his fingers, tracing the final line of your new cut. The length brushed just above your shoulders, clean and light, with longer ends framing your face. A bob, but not cold. It was feminine, purposeful, and more alive than anything you felt these past few months.
You opened your eyes, staring at your reflection, at this girl who looked like you, but not quite. She was a little older. A little emptier, but maybe also a little freer.
“Gege…” you whispered, breath breaking.
He stepped behind you again, meeting your gaze in the mirror. One hand gently rested on your shoulder, the other trailing lightly through the fresh ends of your hair, like he was sealing the ritual.
"You look like the sunrise, baby," he murmured. “New. Soft. Brighter than you think.”
You turned around slowly, careful like the moment might slip through your fingers if you moved too fast. Your hands hovered at your sides for a second, uncertain, then rose to brush against the ends of your hair. The sensation felt foreign. Lighter. It no longer dragged down your shoulders like a weight you couldn’t name. The strands were soft now, trimmed clean, almost unfamiliar, but there was something gentle in that unfamiliarity. Something full of possibility.
Your gaze found his, searching. It wasn’t doubt that stirred in you, not really. You knew Caleb would love you through anything. He always had. But still, you needed to hear it. Needed the assurance that this transformation had not made you unrecognizable to him. Your voice came quiet, small, as your fingers curled around the ends of your hair again, your other arm tucking behind your back like it might hide your nervousness.
“Do you like it, gege?”
He didn’t answer at first, not because he didn’t know, but because he was looking at you like you were light made flesh. Like you were the only thing in the room he could see. His eyes softened. Not with pity. Never pity. But with something whole and aching, like his heart had recognized you before his lips could form the words.
He stepped forward, closing the space between you with steady calm. One hand lifted to your face, brushing through your hair, smoothing a lock behind your ear. He leaned in, not rushing, not claiming, just nearing the space where your breath mixed with his. Your lashes fluttered shut, anticipating the warmth of his mouth on yours. But instead, he tilted forward and pressed the lightest kiss to the tip of your nose, affectionate, simple, but still enough to wreck something deep in you.
“Of course I do,” he said, voice warm, low, and certain. “Would that even be a question?”
He pulled you to him then, his arms wrapping around you with no hesitation. One hand cradled the back of your head, fingers curling into the trimmed edges like he was memorizing the new shape of you, the new beginning you’d offered him. “You look beautiful, meimei. You always do.”
Your body responded before your mind did, arms slipping around his middle, cheek pressed against his chest. The moment his warmth settled over you, the tears returned, quiet this time, but endless. You didn’t resist. Not this time. Not when everything in his touch told you that it was safe to fall.
His embrace didn’t just hold you. It anchored you, kept you still when the storm inside threatened to rise again. The steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath your ear felt like a melody you’d forgotten, one you’d always known how to return to. And just for now, it was enough.
For the first time in what felt like eternity, something inside you whispered:
You’re home.
He was here. Real, and loving you back with the kind of quiet permanence that promised: no more leaving. No more pretending. No more pieces lost in the dark. He would stay. And he would write over every broken memory with hands that only ever knew how to care for you.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
What came after that felt like something more vivid than your wildest lucid dreams, those aching, hyperreal visions you used to chase in sleep, where his arms were still around you and your world hadn't fallen apart. This was clearer, deeper. More than your late-night prayers. More than the soft, unspoken wishes you tucked beneath your pillow during the months he was gone. The glimmer of your baby blue dress caught the light with every step, twinkling like stardust each time it brushed against your thighs. And beside you—he matched. His shirt, tailored and sharp, held that same soft hue. A pair made whole again.
He carried you, hand in hand, your fingers interlaced like no time had passed, toward the dining table, where warmth radiated in more ways than one. Laughter lingered in the air, leftover from stories exchanged between spoonfuls. You barely touched your utensils. You didn’t have to. Caleb was already there, scooping the food with one hand and gently offering it to you with the other, like feeding you was an old rhythm he never forgot.
“I’ll be full and content if I spoon-feed you myself, meimei,” he murmured, teasing but tender. “It’s been a while since I’ve done that as your older brother, after all.”
And it was true. He insisted. That same stubborn, protective warmth hadn’t dulled a bit. You caved to it instantly, your legs drawing in beneath your chair, your arms shyly pressing into your lap. For the first time in a long time, you felt like someone small. Like someone cared enough to keep you safe.
You didn’t even know if the food tasted good. You’d made it for him, yes, but your tongue barely registered the flavor. All you saw was his face, smiling like you hadn’t lost each other at all. There was a change in him, though something you couldn’t name. His cheerfulness was quieter now, tempered by experience, by loss. But he still looked at you like you were the world he wanted to return to.
Stories were passed between bites, laughter carried over the table like warm wind. And when the plates were scraped clean, your stomach filled not with food, but with something richer, something golden, almost holy.
Then came the cake.
Soft candlelight cast long, gentle shadows over the frosting, and for a moment, the world paused again. Afraid the silence would stretch too long and eat you whole, you shifted your weight and softly cut through it.
“Would you mind blowing the candles for me, gege?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, muffled against the sleeve where your arms curled around his. You didn’t want to let go. Not of his warmth. Not of this moment. As if loosening your grip would wake you up from the dream. Your hands squeezed tighter, childish, maybe, but he didn’t laugh. He only smiled. That smile. So full of something you didn’t know if you deserved yet, but were slowly, giddily beginning to believe.
But then he leaned closer, just a bit. Enough to make your breath still and your heart pound somewhere near your throat.
“Well,” he said, voice low with something fond, something old, “I was thinking of something else, meimei.”
He dipped lower to your face, his back bending at an angle so familiar it startled you. Like how he used to lean over the stove to kiss your forehead while you stirred soup. Like how he stooped down to look into your eyes when he brought you coffee in the early mornings of Skyhaven, teasing you about how you were short because you skipped milk.
“This birthday wouldn’t have happened if it weren’t for you,” he murmured, eyes glinting with a warmth that flickered like the candlelight between you. “You orchestrated everything. The cake. The food. The little decorations on the table. You.”
You were about to protest, but he touched your cheek before you could say anything. His palm was warm, fingertips brushing so gently it almost undid you. He held your face like it was something precious again, like the same soft thing he had cleansed and cradled just hours ago. His thumb moved slowly across your skin, and you could feel your blush rise to meet him.
“But it’s your birthday, gege,” you whispered, the corners of your lips tugging down as the ache bubbled quietly in your throat. “And your homecoming…”
His expression shifted. Softer, more solemn. His gaze fell into yours like a stone into a still lake, deep, unwavering, something ancient behind it.
“No,” he murmured. “It’s ours, meimei.”
The words landed like a benediction.
You blinked up at him, breath faltering as your heartbeat stumbled. Your chest rose with shallow effort, your fingers still clinging to his sleeve. But the moment swallowed you whole. His voice, his warmth, the scent of him in the air, it all wrapped around you like prayer.
“You came back too,” he said, voice breaking on the edges. “From a place I couldn’t reach. From that hollow place I left you in. I know… I know what it did to you. I see it in your eyes, in the way you hold yourself. I let you disappear. And you still clawed your way back to me.”
His hand never left your cheek. It steadied you. Grounded you. The pad of his thumb brushed slowly beneath your eye, catching a tear you didn’t know had spilled. Then his forehead lowered to yours, resting there with care, the way he always did when you needed to be quieted. When words weren’t enough.
“So let’s do it together,” he whispered.
And you nodded, small, fragile, but sincere.
He reached forward with you, both your hands steadying the cake between you. The flames of the candles danced, casting gold across his skin. You looked at him, not just at his face, but into him, and saw the man you had mourned, the boy you once adored, and the home you thought was lost forever. You closed your eyes. Breathed in the shared air between you. Thought of your wish, not for peace, not for forgiveness, but for time. For more of this. For this to never leave you again.
Together, in one breath, you blew.
The flames vanished, smoke curling like silk into the still air. The silence after was so full, it hurt. The soft glow from the lights flickered in your tears. Caleb didn’t speak. He only turned to look at you, and smiled with that unbearable tenderness, like seeing you like this was the only thing that ever mattered. And just like that, a small, wavering, but real smile blossomed. He reached for your hand again, and threaded your fingers between his. A perfect fit, like no time had passed at all.
You lifted the fork carefully, scooping a bit of the soft cake onto the silver prongs. Your hands still trembled faintly, the aftermath of everything clinging to your skin like residue. But you steadied them anyway, just enough to guide the bite to his lips. Caleb leaned in with the quiet grace of someone worshipping, his mouth parting just slightly. You fed him like he was something delicate, like the bite itself was an offering in a temple of two.
He chewed slowly, his eyes never leaving yours, as if the taste meant nothing compared to the way you looked at him now. There was a stillness in his gaze, not heavy, but full. Full of something soft and content, something old and familiar made new again. The flicker of candlelight played across the gold in his irises, and for a moment, he looked like a man not just in love, but at peace. Peaceful in a world that had nearly taken that from him.
You leaned back just slightly, heart aching and full, and tried to catch your breath. You hadn’t realized how much you missed this, the simple intimacy of sharing food, the way the space between you both filled with something tender and slow. You had forgotten how it felt to be seen like this, to be fed without question, to be known without having to explain.
"You still make the best cake," he murmured once he swallowed, voice syrup-thick and humming with fondness. “You always overmix the batter just a little… but that’s what makes it yours. That’s what makes it perfect.”
You wrinkled your nose, blushing and ready to swat at him with a protest. “Stop teasing me, gege, I didn’t—”
But before the words could fully form, his finger dipped into the thick curl of frosting left on the plate and, without hesitation, smeared it across the bridge of your nose.
Your breath caught in your throat.
The touch was cool and unexpected, the soft sweetness clinging to your skin. You blinked, stunned. Wide-eyed. Silenced by frosting.
Caleb’s expression bloomed into something brighter than candlelight. He grinned, the real kind, wide and unchecked, the corners of his mouth curling up with joy he couldn’t hide even if he wanted to. His laugh followed, deep and golden, the kind that rumbled in his chest before spilling into the space between you. It was the sound you remembered from your best memories. The one that used to echo down corridors and across shared bedsheets and through sleepy mornings. The one that said everything would be okay.
He looked at you like you were the most precious thing he had ever touched. Like your startled, frosted face was a masterpiece.
“You were getting too serious,” he said through a chuckle, reaching up with his thumb to gently swipe away a bit of the frosting, “so I had to fix it.”
You gaped at him. Open-mouthed, offended, and betrayed in the gentlest way possible.
“Oh? You think you can get away with that?” Your voice trembled at the edges, not from pain this time, but from barely-contained laughter.
You struck back, quick and decisive, dipping your own finger into the icing and dabbing it right onto his cheekbone. The white stood out against his skin like a mark of war. The look on his face was priceless, gasping, a little wide-eyed, followed by that lopsided, boyish smile that you used to kiss without thinking.
“There,” you said softly, mischief warming your voice. “Now we match.”
He laughed again, softer this time, curling around the sound like it was yours to keep. His forehead tipped forward until it brushed yours, the two of you frosting-marked and glowing in the amber light. His hand found your thigh under the table again, warm and grounding, while your hand rested gently on his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of a heart that still beat only for you.
And in that moment, as the laughter faded into a quiet hum between you both, you let yourself believe it.
This was healing.
This was home.
His thumb brushed the frosting from your lip, but lingered there, slow and thoughtful. His eyes searched yours, not asking, not demanding. Just… seeing. Seeing you. And you let yourself be seen.
The space between you wasn’t big. It never had been. Not really. It only took one breath, one shared inhale, for your bodies to begin leaning in again. The kind of gravity that didn’t pull, but welcomed.
He spoke, low and close.
“Can I kiss you, meimei?”
You fluttered your eyelashes open, pulling back just enough to see him clearly, your breath still catching at the edges. The heat of his body still lingered on your skin, clinging like silk. You blinked up at him, the glow of the warm lights softening the sharp lines of his jaw, casting a delicate shadow over the fire in his gaze. It wasn’t playful. It wasn’t teasing. It was hunger and something deeper.
Your brows lifted faintly, lips parting with uncertainty as you searched him. “Aren’t we moving a little too fast, gege?” you asked, your voice quiet, vulnerable in the low-lit hush between you. And yet, even as you said it, your palms slid along the swell of his arms, fingertips tracing the shape of his biceps. There was no pressure behind it, only something trembling and curious, something that wanted to stay close.
He didn’t speak right away. He only caught your hands with his own, gently caging them against his chest, where you could feel his heartbeat, steady, strong, impossibly grounding. His eyes locked with yours, and in them was a gravity you couldn’t turn from.
“I’ve starved long enough,” he said, his voice dipping, low and sure. “Starved of your scent, your warmth, your skin against mine. I’m a man returned from the dead, meimei, and all I want—” he leaned in, tucking a stray strand of your hair behind your ear, fingers brushing the shell of it with maddening care, “—is you.”
You turned your head, face warming, a pink flush blooming across your cheeks. The intimacy of his gaze was too much, like he could see beneath your skin, into the places you thought were ruined beyond repair. But he reached anyway. He always reached.
Then, without warning, he tugged you in by the waist. The sudden closeness stole your breath, your palms pressed flat against his chest, and one of his hands found your jaw, tilting your face upward, guiding you without force, only precision. You could feel his thumb grazing the edge of your cheek, the touch tender but anchoring.
“If you don’t want this,” he murmured, mouth hovering just above yours, “push me away.”
The silence between you thickened. His fingers slowly threaded through your hair, letting the strands curl between them, dragging his touch along your scalp like he was drawing out your breath. “But if you don’t,” he whispered, lips so close they brushed your words away, “I’m going to kiss you. And I’ll worship every part of you until you forget anything ever hurt.”
You didn’t move.
Because staying with him felt like breathing, like you were alive again. And you wanted it deep within your soul.
Your heartbeat pounded like a drum against his chest, the air between you turning warm, electric, and heady. You met his gaze one last time, drowning in the gravity of it, then tilted your chin up and kissed him. His mouth met yours with a need that was quiet but deep, like he'd been waiting lifetimes for that single moment of permission. Like you were the first sip of water after years lost in the desert.
The moment your lips touched, you remembered everything, how natural it was for your bodies to speak this language, how easy it was to fall back into this rhythm, where love bloomed in sweat and skin. You leaned closer, your chest pressed against his, arms winding around his neck before your hands cupped his cheeks, deepening the kiss with all the silent hunger you had buried inside you.
There was no more hesitation. Not in your movements, not in the way your mouth opened against his. Your tongues clashed, tasted, took. And Caleb, your Caleb, kissed you back like a man who had returned from war and found his peace again. His hands mapped your spine, trailing with care and need, fingers pressing, learning, relearning you.
The passion built like a fire stoked in silence for too long. He kissed you over and over, with reverence and heat. Sometimes he pulled back to bite at your lip, gentle at first, then with just enough pressure to make your thighs tremble. And when your breath hitched, he chuckled low, breath fanning your flushed cheeks.
Right after the clock ticked louder into the room, you broke away to breathe, panting, your forehead resting against the crook of his neck. Your voice came out in a whisper. “Gege, I—”
“Sofa,” he said, cutting in gently. Not a command. A plea, laced with need.
He took your hand and kissed your knuckles, slow and tender, his eyes never leaving yours. You could feel the question in his touch, the longing and the restraint. And maybe he saw the flicker of fear still rooted in your chest, because his expression softened immediately. He rose to his full height, towering over you, hands landing gently on your shoulders to steady you.
“Meimei, listen to me.”
His voice anchored you. Each word carved into you like a vow.
“Let me be the one to worship you again. Let me fill the cracks left behind. Let me make you whole, not with promises, but with the way I touch you, the way I love you. Let me rewrite every memory that ever made you feel ruined."
He kissed your forehead, soft, deliberate, and it steadied you. “Let me remark your skin, in tenderness. Let me reclaim every inch of you, not out of possession, but devotion. Let me love you until there’s nothing left but light.”
You blinked up at him, the weight of your insecurities still clinging to your chest like fog. But the way he looked at you—the way his voice shook when he asked to make you whole—broke something open inside. You were scared. Still unsure if you deserved this much love. But maybe, just maybe, you could be a little greedy.
“Please, ge,” you whispered. The words barely left your throat, but they were enough.
He stilled. His eyes turned darker, pupils wide and gleaming like a tide pulling you in. The smile that curled at the edge of his lips was both soft and dangerous. Without another word, he swept you into his arms, holding you like something sacred, something rediscovered. He carried you to the sofa with the same grace he used to hold your trembling heart.
He laid you down like a prayer.
Then leaned over you, one palm at your waist, the other smoothing your hair gently behind your ear. His gaze searched yours, not for permission, but to make sure you were still there with him, body and soul.
“May I do the service of undressing you, meimei?” he asked, his voice like velvet and fire.
His voice carried with it the weight of a thousand aching nights, every syllable carved from longing and devotion. You couldn’t answer with words. You simply nodded, slowly, your breath caught somewhere between fear and desire, trust and anticipation. Your body trembled beneath his gaze, your chest rising and falling in time with the beat of your name in his mouth.
He bent over you, his movements unhurried, his hands warm and sure as they reached for the hem of your dress. Fingers brushed over your thighs, sliding up with reverence as he gathered the fabric slowly, inch by inch, like he was unwrapping something precious, not to ravish but to honor. His lips never left your skin for long. He kissed the exposed parts of your body as the dress peeled away—your knees, your hip bones, the soft curve beneath your ribs—his mouth writing silent poetry over places that had only known cold for too long.
The dress slipped past your shoulders, caught briefly at your arms before he slid it off completely, folding it gently, placing it aside like it mattered, because you mattered.
When you were bare beneath him, his eyes didn’t devour you, they worshipped. He took his time just looking, tracing the curve of your collarbone with his fingertips, then down the slope of your waist, memorizing you all over again. Not with greed. Not with lust alone. But with love that broke you open in the best way.
“You are so beautiful,” he murmured, like it hurt to say. “Do you know that? No matter what you believe, you are.”
He bent down, kissed the place above your heart. Then lower, over the center of your ribs. Each kiss was soft. Purposeful. It felt like he was breathing life into your body again, piece by shattered piece.
Your hands trembled as they reached for him, slipping beneath his shirt. You pushed the fabric up with slow, shaky fingers, wanting to see him too. To feel him again. He let you undress him, every movement laced with patience, his skin hot beneath your palms. When his chest was finally exposed, you pressed your face into it, lips brushing over the familiar warmth, the solidness of him.
“I missed this,” you whispered, and he hummed against your crown.
“I missed you.”
And then he lowered himself over you, not to dominate, but to align. To connect. The weight of his body on yours was grounding, safe, an answer to every prayer you whispered in your loneliest nights. He kissed you again, slower this time, deeper, his hand threading through your hair, the other cradling your hip.
It was no longer just about the act. It was something deeper, an unmaking, a rejoining, a sacred surrender of everything broken between you. His touch redrew you. His mouth reclaimed the pieces of you you thought were lost forever.
And beneath him, you let yourself be rebuilt.
He undid the buttons of his shirt one by one, fingers unhurried, until the fabric slid from his shoulders and fell to the floor with a whisper. There was no care in the way he discarded it, so unlike the tenderness he showed your clothes just minutes earlier, folding each piece like it meant the world to him. You couldn’t help but let out a quiet laugh, your lips curling into something fragile, something full of love. He tilted his head at you, gaze sliding down your body, studying the bloom of amusement in your eyes.
“What’s funny, meimei?” he asked, lowering himself until his mouth was close enough to taste your breath. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
His voice was warm honey, thick with affection and something darker. He nosed along the curve of your throat, breathing in the scent of your skin like it grounded him. Like it tethered him back to life.
You laughed again, softer this time. Your arms wrapped around his neck, fingers brushing the nape of his hair as you kissed him, just a brush of lips. A promise. A thank you. He leaned into it, cradling your body in his arms like something sacred, before he pulled away and studied you again.
“You really are divine,” he whispered, and then his gaze traveled downward. His hands parted your thighs slowly, reverent in their purpose. The space between you bloomed open like a ritual offering, and he knelt before you, a priest at the altar of your body.
He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh. Then another. And another. His lips lingered each time, the warmth of his breath soaking into your skin like spring rain. You trembled beneath his mouth, overwhelmed not by what he was doing, but by how it made you feel, loved, cherished, known.
You turned your face to the side, one hand covering your lips to quiet the moan threatening to spill out. But he saw it. Of course he did.
“Don’t hide from me, meimei,” he said, so tender it ached. He took your hand gently, pulled it away from your mouth, and interlaced your fingers with his. “I want to hear everything. Every sound. Every moan. Every whisper of my name. Give it to me.”
His voice was a kiss of its own.
And then he began.
He gazed at your folds like they were the most delicate flower he’d ever seen. His breath ghosted over your skin, hot and trembling, and for a long, suspended second, he didn’t move, just looked, just breathed. As if he were memorizing you. As if he needed this image to carry with him for the rest of his life. Then he spoke again, barely audible over the pounding of your heart.
“Even now, after all this time… you’re still the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”
His thumb circled your clit, slow and aching. You arched against him, gasping, fingers gripping his hand like it was the only thing keeping you afloat.
“So pink,” he murmured, reverent and low. “So flushed. So perfect. You’re everything I love, meimei. Everything.”
Your hips trembled, your thighs quivered beneath his hold, and he hadn’t even tasted you yet.
Until he did.
His tongue swept a long, deliberate stripe from your entrance to your clit. You choked on a moan, your back lifting from the sofa in an uncontrolled arch. He moaned with you, like your pleasure fueled his own. He kissed you there, over and over, slow and deep. Then faster. Tongue flicking, lips sucking, worship in every movement.
“Tell me to stop if it’s too much,” he murmured between strokes, voice rough, ruined, as if the taste of you was already unraveling him. “No promises I’ll listen though. You taste too good, meimei.”
His lips curled against your skin in a smile you couldn’t see, but felt. And then he dragged his tongue up the length of your folds again, slow, languid, with an longing pressure that made your toes curl. He wasn’t in a rush. He was savoring you. Tasting you like he was trying to memorize every inch of you, every flavor, every quiver.
You cried out, breath hitching, your hands twisting into his hair with helpless urgency. You couldn’t help it. The sensation was too much, too precise. His tongue flicked softly at your clit, then pressed flat against it, circling slowly, then faster, then slow again, driving you to madness with each change in rhythm. He moved with such intention, every lap of his tongue a declaration of love, of hunger, of absolute possession.
He buried his face deeper, groaning lowly against you when your thighs tried to close around his head. His broad and warm hands slid beneath your knees, pushing them wider, locking you open for him.
“Don’t run from me,” he breathed against your slick heat. “Not when you taste this fucking good.”
And then he dove in.
His tongue dipped into your entrance, shallow and teasing at first, then deeper, licking into you like he was coaxing your soul from your body. You sobbed, back arching violently as his mouth worked you open, slowly, deliberately, pushing you toward the edge with every precise swirl. He licked in patterns, tracing shapes against your most sensitive nerves. Slow circles. Long strokes. Sudden flicks. Sometimes he’d suckle your clit until you couldn’t breathe, then retreat to kiss the inside of your thigh, only to return and do it all over again.
You moaned his name. Over and over. Broken. Breathless. Needy.
Your body was melting beneath him. Shaking. Your stomach clenched with every roll of his tongue, every press of his mouth. He could feel you nearing the edge. The way your thighs trembled. The way your hands tugged harder at his hair. The way you gasped when he sucked at the swollen bundle of nerves again, harder now, greedier, his tongue now fast and messy and maddening.
And still, he didn’t stop.
When he felt you teetering on that precipice, he gripped your thighs hard, holding them apart, grounding you. His voice was ragged when he spoke again.
“Give it to me,” he whispered, lips brushing your clit. “Let go for me. Let your gege have your love.”
That was all it took.
You shattered completely, wholly. Your legs kicked, your hips bucked, your moans spilled out of you in a tidal wave. He didn’t let go, didn’t pull back. He stayed right there, holding you through it, his tongue still gently working you through the tremors. Every drop of you, every sound, every shiver, he took it all in like it was sacred. And when the climax tore through you, so fierce it made your eyes roll back, he moaned too. Like your pleasure was his own undoing. And all you could do was cry out for him, his name, his title, your gege, over and over, the sound raw and reverent in your throat.
Your chest heaved as the last tremor passed through you, soft and violent all at once, leaving you weightless and aching. Your head lolled back, limbs loose, skin fevered. You weren’t even sure what time meant anymore. You were still suspended in the afterglow, lulled into a dreamlike stillness, when you felt the faintest brush of his mouth against your thigh again. He was licking you clean, gentle and methodical, tongue tracing the curves he had just wrecked with worship. The adoration of it made you shudder. He treated you like something sacred. Like something only he was allowed to touch, to taste, to unravel.
You didn’t realize you had tears in your eyes until he kissed the inside of your knee and murmured, “Shh, just sit tight, baby.”
You blinked slowly, your hand twitching with the urge to reach for him again, to keep him close where you could feel his breath on your skin. But he was already pushing up, easing himself back from between your thighs with one last lingering kiss against the softness of your inner thigh. You could still feel his mouth there, like a brand. Still warm, still wet.
“I’ll make you feel good,” he said quietly, like a promise he had already started to fulfill. “All you have to do is give in to me.”
He stood then, briefly leaving your sight, but not your senses. You watched him move, the way his back stretched when he reached down for his bag, the smooth, fluid confidence in his body. He returned with several thin red packets in hand, the glossy wrappers catching the light, bright apple red.
Your brows lifted, mouth parting with a small, silent gasp. His smile was slow, knowing, dark at the edges but full of affection. “You didn’t really think one would be enough tonight, did you?”
Your eyes dropped to his hands, to the tilt of his hips, the faint strain where his waistband hugged the shape of his arousal. Your mouth went dry at the sight of it. The heat already building again between your thighs pulsed stronger. You wanted to look away, but couldn’t.
Then, with the kind of care that turned your breath shallow, he undid the button of his pants. Not hurried, not coy, just deliberate, confident in a way that made the entire world pause to watch. The zipper slid down. He stepped out of them, slow and smooth, revealing the soft muscle along his abdomen, the faint trail that disappeared into the waistband of his boxers. Your eyes caught on the wet spot clinging there. And your heart skipped.
He didn’t rush.
He hooked his thumbs into the hem and pushed the fabric down. And when his cock sprang free, hard and flushed and aching for you, your breath left you entirely. It was beautiful. All of him was. Your gaze flickered up, and you caught him watching you, eyes heavy, mouth parted. He looked at you like you were the only thing that mattered. Like he was already inside you.
Still, he took his time.
He tore open the packet with his teeth, rolled the condom on with practiced ease. The sight of it made your thighs clench, made you remember how full he used to make you feel, how he stretched you open like no one else. It made you crave. Not just the act, but him. Caleb. Your older brother. Your lover.
He moved closer again, the distance between you shrinking with every step, until his knees brushed the edge of the sofa. You tilted your head up to meet his gaze, eyes wide, body still trembling with leftover bliss.
And he didn’t speak right away.
He just looked at you. Took you in. The soft way your chest rose and fell. The curve of your thighs still parted slightly. The blush that hadn’t left your cheeks since the first kiss. His palm cupped your cheek, thumb brushing against your flushed skin like he was rediscovering something precious.
“Lie back,” he said at last, voice low and velvet-rich, "let me in, meimei."
He didn’t mean just physically. You could feel it in the way he looked at you. He meant everything.
Let me back into your heart. Let me take care of what I broke. Let me love you again, properly, wholly, completely. And without a word, you did.
You let yourself fall back. You let your body open to him. You let him in.
He gripped your knees, easing you open with the kind of slow patience that made every second feel heavier, hotter. His thumbs grazed your thighs as though they were parchment he needed to read, understand, remember. He wanted all of you, wanted you pliant and trembling beneath him, just like this. His body moved forward with care, with weight. And then he pushed inside.
Inch by inch, he filled you, and each stretch sent little tremors lacing up your spine. You gasped. Your breath caught in your throat. The sensation wasn’t just physical, it was everywhere, in your chest, your hands, your trembling legs. Every nerve in your body felt like it was waking up, one by one, to him. You could feel his shape, his warmth, his veins—pulsing and thick and demanding space where there hadn’t been any in so long.
Your fingers clutched at the cushions, nails biting into the fabric. It felt too much, too big, too intense, but he didn’t rush. His hips moved just a little, just enough to ease you into the rhythm of him. You blinked up at him, vision hazy with the prickle of tears, not from pain, but the sheer enormity of being held like this again. Of being filled with something more than just flesh. With him.
He leaned forward, brushing your cheek with his thumb as if he could erase everything that ever made you hesitate. His lips touched yours, soft and searching, until the kiss deepened into something more molten, something that curled in your gut and made you moan softly into his mouth. And when he finally pulled away, it was only to trail lower, pressing his lips to your throat, your collarbone, your chest, everywhere you’d once been touched by others. He kissed the marks that hadn’t quite faded. Not to pretend they weren’t there, but to rewrite them in his own language. With teeth and lips and quiet devotion.
His lips found the tip of your nipple and he lingered, sucking it until you gasped again. Then he bit down, not hard, nor cruel, but enough to brand you with something new, something wholly his. Your back arched, your body reacting before your mind could catch up. The place he claimed stung just slightly, but the sting made it real. It made you his.
“You whimpered, arching under him, breath catching. ‘Gege… it’s so big,’ you whispered, your voice threadbare and shy. Your nails curled into his back, half in protest, half in need. ‘Did you… grow while you were gone?’”
He chuckled, the sound low and amused, his chest rumbling against yours. “Maybe I did,” he teased, brushing his fingers through your hair like you were his favorite thing in the world. “Maybe I missed you so much, I grew just to hold more of you.”
You pouted, squeezing his arms, your body trembling under the pressure. “You didn’t warn me…”
“I told you to relax, didn’t I?” he said, kissing the corner of your lips. “Just a little more, Meimei. Almost there.”
You writhed a little more, overwhelmed by the stretch of him, your body adjusting slowly. Even with your slick coating him, you still felt so stretched, so dilated, like your insides were being rewritten by every inch he gave you. And when he stopped, when he was fully seated within you, he looked down and stroked your hair with that same quiet adoration that had always undone you.
He drew his hips back slowly, and with a quiet inhale, he pushed in. A single, deep push, burying himself all the way inside you in one slow stroke. Your mouth opened in a soundless cry, your spine arching. You felt impossibly full, like you couldn’t hold him and yourself at the same time. Every edge of you stretched to accommodate him, until the lines between pain and pleasure blurred into something entirely new.
He groaned, low and sharp, the sound dragging from his throat like he’d waited years for this moment. “Oops… I miiight have lied a bit. Pardon your gege.” he exhaled, kissing your temple as he laughed. “All in, Meimei. Now you’re mine.”
You whimpered beneath him, heart racing, hands slipping from his back to claw at his arms instead. His scent wrapped around you, clean soap and something darker, something aching. You could barely breathe, barely think. But his touch never wavered. One hand stroked your hair while the other gripped your thigh, steadying you, keeping you open for every shiver of movement.
And then, he stilled. Buried deep, not yet moving, just feeling. His forehead pressed to yours, your breaths mixing, your limbs tangled.
“Look at you,” he murmured, voice ragged. “You’re perfect like this. Filled with me. Like you were always meant to be.”
Then, he moved.
Slowly at first, measured, intentional. Each thrust was careful, letting your body adjust to the motion, to the feel of being filled again, of being claimed again, by someone as thick and deep as him. He never let you drift away from him. One arm wrapped firm around your waist, caging you close, like your body was the only sanctuary he knew. The other cradled your face with unbearable tenderness, thumb brushing your cheek, guiding you into a kiss that melted your thoughts. His lips were warm, slightly trembling from restraint, as if he were trying to hold back the part of him that ached to devour you whole.
Your moans spilled out between those kisses, soft and high and desperate. The sound of skin slapping skin echoed between the walls, lewd and wet and intimate. Your back arched with every deeper push, your thighs parting wider, your body betraying just how much it needed this. Needed him. You could feel the heat pooling, slick building where your bodies joined, his thrusts beginning to fall into a rhythm that bordered on worship.
“Oh, you feel so good, baby,” he groaned against your ear, the vibration of his voice sending shivers down your spine. “I missed you so much.” His teeth grazed your earlobe, giving it a gentle bite, like he was tasting the part of you that still remembered how he loved.
And then he trailed lower.
His hand moved from your cheek to your chest, fingers cupping one breast, his palm spreading warmth over your skin. He rolled your nipple between his fingers, coaxing another gasp from you, then bent his head low to press a kiss to the soft swell. You trembled beneath him, overwhelmed by the combination of his thrusts and his mouth, your body pulled taut on the edge of something bright.
“You’re so, so beautiful, my love,” he murmured, lips moving down your sternum between phrases. “From your hair, to your neck, to your chest… and your cunt. Every inch of you. And I’m so glad it’s mine again.”
His mouth found your nipple and he took it between his lips, suckling gently at first, then deeper, wetter. His tongue flicked over the sensitive tip in time with his hips, and the mix of sensations made you cry out, clutching at his back, your legs wrapping tighter around him as you bucked up into his rhythm. You couldn’t hold back anymore. He wasn’t just making love to your body, he was touching the ache buried deep inside your chest, the part that had waited so long to be held like this again.
You were close.
And so was he.
Your body trembled beneath his, hips stuttering with every thrust that brought you closer to the edge. His rhythm was steady but growing deeper, more insistent, his need sharpening just beneath the tenderness. The way he moved inside you felt like he was trying to memorize every part of your walls, like he never wanted to forget what you felt like again.
Your breath hitched, a tremor traveling up your spine. You buried your face against his neck, lips brushing his pulse, your moans becoming more breathless, more broken.
“Gege,” you whimpered, voice shaking. “I… I’m close…”
He slowed his thrusts, just enough to look at you, to make sure you meant it. You nodded, eyes heavy, mouth parted, fingers curling at the back of his neck. And when he saw the truth in your face, how close you were to falling apart, he kissed you. It was not rushed, not messy.
It was like surrender. A kiss like devotion.
Your lips pressed together, deep and warm, his tongue finding yours in time with the roll of his hips. And that was what did it, his kiss and his body and the words he whispered right against your mouth.
“Come with me, meimei. Don’t hold back. Let go with me.”
Your whole body tensed as pleasure washed over you, hot and overwhelming. You clenched around him, gasping into his mouth as you shattered, every nerve lighting up with sensation. And the moment your walls fluttered around him, he broke too. His hips jerked, breath catching, and he moaned low against your lips, as if even his release was meant to be shared.
He remained buried inside as he kissed you through it, holding you steady while your bodies trembled with the aftermath. The kind of climax that left your mind white and your limbs trembling, your names tangled together in gasps and sighs. And when it was done, when the shaking slowed and your heartbeats calmed just slightly, he pulled away just far enough to look at you. His thumb brushed your lower lip, still swollen from the kiss.
You were still trembling in his arms, both of you breathing in the same rhythm, your skin warm and sticky where it met his. He didn’t move a muscle, keeping you in his embrace. Buried inside you, wrapped around you like a blanket you never wanted to peel off. He kissed your temple again, and again, like he was trying to lull you to sleep, but his body told a different story.
You felt it. The way he was still hard, twitching inside you. The way his breath hitched just a little whenever you shifted. And when you nuzzled into his neck, pressing lazy, grateful kisses there, you felt him groan, quietly, like he didn’t want to scare you.
But your hips rolled without thinking. Testing. Inviting.
“Gege,” you whispered, lips brushing against the shell of his ear. “You didn’t finish, did you?”
He laughed, but there was no humor in it. Just want. Just restraint, worn too thin.
“I did,” he murmured, dragging his fingers down your spine. “But then you made that sound. That soft little whimper. And now I’m starving again.”
You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Instead, you reached up and cupped his jaw, tugging his mouth down to yours. And while the kiss started slow, sweet, it didn’t stay that way.
It deepened, hungrier this time.
And before you could blink, he had lifted you into his lap. Still seated, still buried inside. He held you there like it was where you belonged.
“Stay still,” he growled into your neck. “Let me… let me mark you again. Every place they ever touched, every inch they ever claimed—I’ll make it mine.”
Then he bit you. Not cruelly, not carelessly, but with the precise hunger of someone who had dreamed of this for too long. Right at the edge of your shoulder, his mouth closed over a place where another man once dared to mark you, and his teeth sank down with gentle vengeance. He didn’t stop. He kissed the sting away, then traveled lower, letting his lips and tongue soothe before he bit again, lower, slower, dragging the pain into pleasure until it dissolved into a noise escaping your throat.
You moaned, your back arching instinctively, body rising to meet every possessive press of his mouth. You clung to him, your fingers slipping through the sweat-damp strands of his hair, anchoring him closer and closer until there was nothing between you but breath and heat.
And still… a part of you couldn’t believe this was real.
From his impossible return to the quiet, joyful dinner, the warmth of his laughter beside yours, the tenderness of blowing out candles together, and now this, the sacred silence of your bodies pressed as one, it all felt too complete. Too gentle. Like you were trespassing in a dream you had stitched together in your loneliest nights, and the thread would break any moment, waking you to cold sheets and hollow air.
You searched his face, needing something to tether you, and found it not in a word, but in his eyes. He was looking at you. Truly looking, after devouring your skin like a man starved, with such unwavering earnestness that it struck you breathless.
“Are you okay? Was I too rough?” His voice cracked as he asked, his hand already reaching up to your face in apology, in fear, in love.
You shook your head, and tears slid quietly down your cheeks. Not from pain. Not from fear. But from the ache of being held again. From believing, for just long enough, that you could stay like this.
“I’m more than okay,” you whispered, catching his hand and curling it against your cheek. You nuzzled into his palm, seeking its warmth, grounding yourself in a gesture you’d done a thousand times before, when comforting him, when begging him to stay, when waking him from fevered dreams. It felt like breathing. “It just feels… strange. Like if I blink, you’ll be gone. Like none of this is real.”
His expression shifted at your confession. Anguish flickered through him first, then guilt, then something deeper. Resolve. He wrapped his arms around you, gathering you flush to his chest, locking his embrace at your waist like he was holding the world together.
He rested his head on your shoulder, letting the words fall from his lips not like promises, but oaths. “I can’t undo the past,” he murmured, his breath brushing the slope of your collarbone, “but I will spend every moment I have making it up to you. I won’t leave again, meimei. Not now. Not ever. Gravity itself has pulled me back to you. And I won’t fight it.”
Then he kissed the nape of your neck. A soft vow sealed with lips and breath. Followed by another bite, stronger this time. Possessive. Fresh marks etched over old ones. Yours, claimed again, not as a memory, but as a rebirth. And just like that, you let go. Melted into him. Let your body sink into his like it belonged nowhere else. Like your soul remembered this alignment better than your mind ever could.
No, he couldn’t erase everything. Neither could you. But in this moment, tangled together, skin branded with shared want, you didn’t need perfect. Just him.
“I believe you,” you whispered at last, voice muffled in his shoulder. “But if you ever try to leave again, I’ll find you. I’ll lock you in the attic like you did to me in Gran’s house.”
That earned a chuckle from him, low and warm, against your throat. “Be my guest. I’d welcome it. I’d happily rot in your attic, if it means staying close to you.”
Then, with a shift of his weight, he tilted your jaw upward and sank into your neck once more. He kissed your pulse, then bit gently beside it, trailing his lips lower as if tracing a map only he could read.
“You’re mine,” he murmured, almost reverently, his mouth hovering against the base of your throat. “So of course, since my sweet meimei misbehaved, I’ll have to punish you.”
A pause.
“But only gently.”
Warmth slowly bloomed across your cheeks, spreading like the afterglow of a soft fire, while something deeper stirred low in your belly, something sweet, aching, sharp in its clarity. You’d just come twice, trembling from the fullness of his tongue, then again from the way his body filled yours completely. You could still feel him inside you, the ghost of that stretch, the memory of his mouth, every nerve ending lit and frayed. It was overwhelming, familiar and utterly new. A need you had thought buried returning in full force, alive and insatiable.
But you knew him. You knew him too well.
Your gege was gentle, yes. But buried beneath the softness, there lived something darker. Something possessive. And it was stirring now, no longer content to sleep. His gaze on you had shifted, no longer tender alone, but fierce. And the truth whispered itself across your skin like a secret:
You wanted more. So much more.
He didn’t even raise his voice when he said it.
“Sit on my lap.”
A command. Low and smooth like a polished blade, honed from years of discipline and weight. And still it cut right through you. A chill rushed down your spine, leaving a quiver in its wake. You knew that voice. Knew what it meant. It reminded you of those old days, the younger Caleb, already resolute and golden, but this version? He was something more. A colonel now. Sharpened by distance, carved by grief, returned to you with a darker edge. He was ruthless, breathless, and most importantly, yours.
And yet, even then, he paused.
His hand grazed your knee, tracing a light path over your skin. His touch steadied, reverent in a new way.
“Is that alright?” he asked, voice low, sincere. “Can I have you again, like this? Let me lead you, baby. But only if you want it.”
That thread of concern wrapped around your heart, tied you back to the boy you loved before the war took parts of him. You looked into his eyes, that gleam of heat and ache, the fire barely held back by restraint.
And you nodded. You whispered, “Yes, gege,” barely a breath, but full of longing.
He didn’t hesitate after that. You scrambled up on your knees, your limbs weak from pleasure, trembling slightly as you obeyed. His hands reached for you at once, steady and guiding. He didn’t rush, he positioned you just right, lifting your hips with care, helping you straddle him with the kind of patience that made your chest ache. Your hands found his shoulders instinctively, fingers digging into his warm skin, trying to anchor yourself to the sensation of him again.
You moved to sink down onto him.
But then—
“Nuh uh,” he murmured against your skin, the words low and dangerous, laced with amusement.
And before you could even process the words, the sharp crack of his palm landed across your ass, heat blossoming instantly under the strike.
You gasped, head falling forward against his shoulder, every muscle jolting. Your thighs quivered where they touched his hips. A shudder passed through your whole body, not from pain, but from the electric pleasure laced in it. It had been so long since you felt this, the quick sting of his discipline, the way it melted instantly into care. You had forgotten how much you loved this. And now, it was back. He was back.
He cupped you afterward, soothing the sting, his fingers tender even in their possession. His other hand kept you steady, splayed across your back, like he was holding the storm in place.
“Bad meimei,” he whispered again, slower this time, lips brushing against your ear. “You don’t get to choose, not without your gege’s permission.”
Your eyes fluttered closed. Your body trembled again.
You nearly came right there just from that. The words, the smack, the weight of being seen and held and owned. But you held it back, barely. Shame mixed with heat, need with surrender, and you collapsed forward, resting against his chest like it was your only sanctuary. He stroked down your spine, slow and rhythmic, grounding you like he always had.
And in that moment, it wasn’t just about arousal anymore. It was safety. Protection. It was the quiet knowledge that here, in his lap, in his arms, you were cradled by something greater than touch.
“Slowly, my love. Sink down slowly… unless,” his voice curled around you like smoke, “you’d rather be a needy little slut and take it all in one go. Hm? What do you want, meimei?”
He gave you two paths, both cruel in their own way, both thrilling. But somehow, you found yourself leaning toward the one that made your chest thrum and your core pulse. There was something broken and tender inside you that twisted at the idea of being spoken to like that. Not because it degraded you. But because he was the one saying it. Because his voice wrapped every sting in silk, every dark whisper in devotion. Because even the bruising became something sacred in his hands.
You nodded, breath catching, eyes lifting to meet his. The darkness in his gaze burned through you, hot, unflinching, maddeningly clear. And you moved. Sank down in one breathless motion, taking him to the hilt. The stretch split your breath in half. A ragged gasp tore from your mouth. You felt impossibly small, not just in size, but in presence, your thoughts hollowed out by sensation. He filled you as if his body had carved out a space that no one else could occupy, like your shape had been molded for him alone, always waiting for this reunion.
He groaned, the sound low and sharp with hunger, hands firm on your hips, grounding you as your body trembled.
“What a sight,” he murmured, eyes narrowing with that growing fire. “Did you want to rile me up? You did, didn’t you, meimei?”
Before you could answer, he lifted you with startling ease. Your breath hitched, thighs spasming from the ache, from the emptiness that lasted only a second before he thrust up into you again, deep and relentless. His rhythm was punishing and reverent all at once, hips snapping upward as you struggled to keep your balance against his shoulders. Each time he pulled you back down, your walls fluttered in response, desperate to keep him inside, to never let him go again.
You cried out, legs barely able to hold your weight. He hit every place that made you lose control, that left you begging. You clung to him, arms wrapped around his neck, fingers clawing down his back with no shame, no filter. You sobbed out his name again and again like a prayer ripped from your throat.
“Gege—too big, I can’t—!”
But he just laughed, soft and unhurried, like he was watching a favorite scene play out exactly as he’d imagined. You were his. His to hold, to love, to break apart and stitch back together with care. And he had no intention of letting up.
“Silly girl,” he whispered, nosing into your neck, voice laced with heat. “This is only the beginning. You’re mine again, meimei. Mine to touch, mine to love, mine to take.”
One hand reached up, fingers tangling in your hair before he gave it a firm tug, pulling your head back and exposing your throat. You gasped, lips parted in a soft whimper, and he wasted no time. His mouth found the places where others had once left their marks, where pain and shame still lingered. He kissed over them, then bit deep, over and over, drawing new marks, his marks, until they bloomed red and purple on your skin, a field of him, a field of home.
You clung tighter, legs shaking, body wrung out and overstimulated, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. He was merciless now. Thrust after thrust, each one rougher than the last, his breath ragged against your shoulder, your hips slapping down into his with wet, obscene sounds.
“I’m close—gege, please let me—” you cried, the desperation raw.
But his hand landed hard against your ass again, a sharp reminder.
“No,” he growled, slowing his pace to a crawl. “Not yet. Not until I say so.”
Your mouth dropped open in a soundless plea. The sudden lack of motion, the torturous drag of him half-inside, had you sobbing into his skin. He was no longer moving with rhythm, only with purpose, grinding, circling, building a new kind of tension.
But you could feel it in him too. There was something simmering under the surface, not just lust. Something unsettled. His expression had shifted. There was a flash of uncertainty there. Not in you, but in himself.
Your heart twisted. Was he doubting this? Doubting you? You opened your mouth to ask, but then he beat you to it.
“Meimei.”
Your name in that voice, firm, full of command and care, pulled you back to the present.
“It’s not you,” he said softly. “Don’t worry, my love.”
He stroked your hair, twirling a lock around his fingers like he used to when you were both younger. But this time, there was no smile behind the gesture. Only distance. A quiet searching. His fingers trembled ever so slightly.
And then, without warning, he slipped out of you. You gasped, startled. His strong arms caught you before you could fall, cradling you like something precious. He lifted you gently, set you down beside him on the sofa, his movements careful, too careful. And the air turned colder somehow.
You blinked up at him, confusion tightening in your chest. Why? Why did he stop, just when everything felt so… right?
He didn’t say a word. But he didn’t have to. It was as if he’d heard the question bloom silently in your chest, like your thoughts had echoed against the shape of his bones. His gaze found yours, earnest, unreadable, a flame flickering behind his eyes that felt too sacred to name.
His hand drifted downward, slow and unfurling, until it found the base of his own shaft. He slid the condom off with fingers that trembled slightly, not from hesitation, but from the need that had been sharpened to a blade. The motion was clumsy in its urgency, quiet in its reverence, as though the act itself bore weight. You watched him, caught in that still moment, your eyes tracing the length of him, the sculpt of his hips, the curve of his torso that now gleamed with sweat. The heat between your thighs had begun to pool, slick and heady, a mixture of what he'd given you and what you craved. But it was the confusion in your chest, the uncertainty mixing with need, that made you hold your breath.
Then his eyes lifted. And you saw it, that quiet storm behind his gaze. Steadfast and clear.
“I just want to feel you,” he whispered, voice low and raw as he leaned in. “Warm, bare, nothing between us. Your skin to mine… just this once. It’s not too much to ask, is it?”
He kissed your neck then, lips brushing your pulse like he was drinking from something sacred. The way he aligned himself again with your entrance, slowly and deliberately, made your thighs tighten around him in reflex. You should’ve pulled away. You should’ve spoken the doubts. But the way he held you, the way his voice didn’t tremble, it melted through your reservations like candle wax, burning them down to the wick.
“Gege… is it really okay?” Your voice came out soft, shy, almost apologetic, your index finger tracing slow circles on his back like a ritual for comfort. Like a question you couldn’t speak out loud. His breath hummed against your shoulder in response, not words but something deeper. A promise.
“Don’t worry,” he murmured, voice settling in your bones like dusk. “If anything happens… I’ll take responsibility. I want to.”
He reached for your hand, calloused fingers brushing against your ring finger, curling around it with a care that stunned you. And then he brought it to his lips, eyes never leaving yours, and kissed the skin there. Not with fire, but with something softer. Like a vow, like a ceremony. You felt it, the press of his lips against that place where a band should sit. You understood what he meant. Without words, he was asking you to marry him in body. In soul. At this moment, now.
Your eyes filled. Your heart opened.
“Okay, gege… I trust you. I’ll serve you. Just like always. Take me, however you want me.”
That was all it took.
Whatever restraint he’d been clinging to unraveled with that sentence. The beast, the hunger, the darkness threaded through his desire, he let it out. Not to hurt you, but to claim you. To show you in flesh what his words couldn’t always say. In the next breath, your body moved, without your own will. Gravity shifted around you, not with violence, but with precision. With care. His evol. You were pulled downward, slowly, inexorably, until your hips met his in full. Flesh to flesh.
No more barriers. No more space between.
The sensation tore a sound from your lips, a moan laced with disbelief. The absence of protection made everything unbearable, real. You could feel every ridge of him, the pulse in his length, the fever in his skin. He was inside you, raw and warm and impossibly deep. It was like being rethreaded from the inside out, like your body was remembering something it had once forgotten.
You arched back, head falling toward the stars, lips parted, spine taut as he began to thrust. Gravity didn’t stop, he kept control, his power moving you with perfect rhythm, your own muscles no longer needing to do the work. Your arms scrambled to find purchase on the bed, fingers curling in the sheets, as your body rocked in time with his.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered against your ear, voice thick and fraying at the edges. “Please bear with me, meimei. I need this. I need you.”
One arm wrapped tight around your waist, holding you still while the other explored you with worshipful intent. His hand slid up to your chest, fingers curling, playing, tugging. Every brush of his palm sent sparks through your nerves, layered over the thrusts that had already begun to undo you.
You gasped his name again, eyes glassy, body trembling like a harp string pulled too tight.
This time, you didn’t care if it was too much. You wanted it. You wanted him. All of him.
He rocked into you with a rhythm only he knew, something carved not just from muscle and memory, but from longing, from the ache of too many nights spent without your warmth beneath him. With every thrust, you felt it, not just the stretch, not just the fullness, but the devotion, the intent behind it. Like he was relearning you from the inside out, committing the shape of your body to memory, rewriting every scar and ghost with the language of his hips.
And oh, how your body responded, how it remembered. Your walls clenched around him like a vice, like you didn’t want to let him go. Like you wanted to pull him even deeper, to fuse into him completely. You could feel every vein, every twitch of his cock as he drove into you, the wet, obscene sounds of your joining echoing off the walls like praise. Your hands fumbled to hold him, his back, his shoulders, his hair, anything to anchor you as the pleasure built, slow and heavy like a storm ready to break.
He looked down at you, lips parted, hair falling into his eyes, damp with sweat. “You feel so good,” he breathed, his voice wrecked with awe. “So fucking good, baby. I could lose myself in you."
You whimpered his name, the only word that still made sense. Gege. Your voice was wrecked, trembling, already falling apart.
He leaned in and kissed you then, not rushed, not bruising, but deep and consuming. His tongue brushed yours in slow circles, as if tasting the sound of his name on your lips. And through the kiss, through the heat, you whispered:
“Gege… I’m close again.”
The moment the words left you, something shifted in him. His thrusts grew rougher, more erratic. One arm locked tighter around your waist while the other slipped between your bodies, his fingers finding your clit and circling it with perfect pressure, like he knew your body better than you did. You jolted, crying out, your thighs trembling around his hips.
He swallowed your moans in another kiss, holding you close as if you were breaking, as if this moment was too fragile to let go of.
And then, he came undone. With a choked gasp against your lips, his cock pulsed deep inside you, and you felt the heat of him spill, raw and overwhelming. The force of it tipped you over the edge with him, your release crashing through your body like waves, your muscles spasming, your voice lost to everything but his name.
You clung to him, sobbing into his shoulder, body shuddering with aftershocks. And he held you through it tight and steady, murmuring your name like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth. The two of you stayed like that. Joined, breathless, bodies tangled, and hearts laid bare.
But he wasn’t done. Not even close.
Even as your body trembled against him, slick and limp, breath barely holding together like gossamer thread, he shifted. The smallest movement had you gasping, the overstimulation striking like lightning against nerves already stripped raw. This had to be your third time, maybe fourth, you couldn’t even count anymore. And yet the way his hands roamed your waist, how his mouth brushed your shoulder, told you plainly: he was still hungry.
When he pulled out, a rush of cool air kissed your inner thighs, the loss of him making you whimper. But before you could even register the emptiness, your body lifted. Not by his hands, but by something stronger. His evol. You floated, suspended by his will alone, your back against his chest as he carried you forward, deeper into the apartment, until the light above changed.
The soft glow of the bathroom bloomed to life around you.
“Gege, what are you—?”
He shushed you with nothing but a finger, the pad of it pressing to your lips. But even then, you couldn’t help yourself, your tongue darted out to taste him, to quiet your fear with the only thing that soothed it. His fingers. His scent. Him.
“You said I could do anything,” he said softly, voice low and calm, tinged with dark affection, “so I will. Just one more, meimei. Just one more for me.”
He turned you gently in the air, gravity bending to his desire. You hovered, bare and ruined, before the mirror, your body a canvas of flushed skin, swollen lips, smeared tears, and bruises blooming like flowers where his mouth had lingered. Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, and down your thighs, his pleasure still leaked from earlier, shining under the light. Your nipples were taut, skin glowing, sensitive from his earlier worship.
And still he looked at you like you were something holy.
“Let me have you again. Let me take you apart one last time tonight,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Let me show you what it means to belong to someone.”
You couldn’t answer. Not in words. But your eyes found him in the mirror, dark and wild and gleaming with love, and it was enough.
He used his evol again.
There was no need for hands now. You felt your hips being pulled, gravity anchoring you where he needed you to be, right against him. The head of his cock lined up with your entrance once more, and without warning, he pushed you down onto him.
The sensation was raw. Burning. You choked on the sound that tried to escape you. Every inch of him carved through your sore, fluttering walls, no barrier left, nothing between you this time. Flesh to flesh. It felt like you were being melted and reforged in his arms.
He hissed as he bottomed out, his hands now touching everywhere all at once. One gripped your waist, grounding you as he pressed his other palm against your lower belly, right over where his cock filled you, feeling the stretch from the outside. You whimpered at the pressure. You could feel him everywhere. And he wasn’t still. He moved. Slowly at first, but then with purpose, drawing whines and broken sounds from your throat as his other hand came up to cradle your throat, his thumb gently stroking under your jaw.
His rhythm grew deeper, more urgent, but never losing control.
He tugged your chin, kissed you fiercely, his tongue tasting the salt on your lips. Between thrusts, he whispered against your skin.
“Look. Look at yourself.”
You tried. Your eyes were heavy, barely staying open. But he tilted your face forward again, forcing your gaze into the mirror’s reflection. And there she was. A girl unmade by love. Her lips parted, her skin painted with need, her body held up only by the man behind her. His arms around you like chains. His hips claiming you like you were the only altar he prayed to.
“Open your eyes, meimei,” he breathed. “I want you to see what you look like when you’re mine.”
And so you did.
You opened your eyes. Saw it. Saw everything. Yourself—stretched around him, dripping from him, face streaked with tears and kisses, and his name written in every inch of your expression. You looked like a girl completely undone.
But so loved, so wanted, so deeply his.
He kept you there, suspended in his hold, your knees barely brushing the cold marble as gravity shaped your movements to his will. The rhythm built slowly, grinding into you with delicious weight, each thrust pressing deeper than the last, stealing what was left of your voice and your thoughts. His grip on your waist was firm, pulling you back just enough to meet the precise drag of his hips, while his hand at your neck slid upward again, gently stroking your jaw as if to soothe what his body did not. Your head lolled back onto his shoulder, breath stuttering, lips parted in desperate, wordless pleasure.
“You feel that?” he rasped into your ear, voice cracking with restraint. “You feel how soaked you are for me? How tight you get when I talk to you like this?” He licked the shell of your ear, teeth grazing soft skin before he bit, not harsh, but firm enough to leave his shape there, just another place to call you his. “My sweet little thing. You act so innocent, but you’re always dripping for me, aren’t you?”
You sobbed out something unintelligible, body trembling as his cock thrust deeper, the stretch somehow sharper without the barrier between you. Skin to skin, slick to heat. Every drag of him inside you felt unbearably raw, as if you were being unstitched from the inside out and sewn back together under his name.
“Don’t lie to me,” he growled, one palm sliding from your belly to your chest, cupping a breast, thumb brushing your swollen nipple with agonizing tenderness. “You love it. You love it when I use you like this. When I make you mine over and over again.”
His words tangled with your moans, filling the room like incense. And he didn’t stop. His movements became sharper, hips snapping up into you with practiced cruelty. You couldn’t even brace yourself anymore, he held all of you. Every movement, every tremble, was his to control.
“You’re so fucking pretty like this. Look at you,” he whispered, pressing your body closer to the mirror. “Look how you take me. Look how perfect you are when you're stuffed full of your gege’s cock.”
Your nails scrambled for purchase against the edge of the vanity, but he caught your wrists, pinning them against the glass, your reflection shuddering in time with each thrust. The sounds between your bodies grew louder—wet, obscene, broken only by the soft keening whimpers escaping your lips.
“You’re perfect, you know that?” he said, kissing the nape of your neck with reverence now, his tone softer. “You’re my treasure. My favorite girl. My only one.” His pace didn’t slow, if anything, he angled deeper, chasing the spot that made your legs seize with each thrust. “I’ll never let anyone else have you again. No one else gets to fuck you like this. No one else gets to love you like this.”
The duality of him, his tenderness tangled with cruelty, his praise laced with claim, wrapped around you like a second skin.
And then came the unraveling.
Your voice cracked open, your thighs trembling against his hips, your eyes fluttering shut even as he growled for you to keep them open. You couldn't hold it anymore. Your orgasm built and built, pressure swelling to something unbearable, and when he curved his hips just right, grinding into you with brutal precision, you shattered.
“Gege, I'm—please. I'm coming—!”
“Let go. Come on me. Let your gege feel it,” he groaned, and as your body spasmed around him, he drove into you with one last thrust, burying himself to the hilt.
He came with a cry, his hands tightening on your hips, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. Hot and raw, he spilled inside you, his breath hitching with every twitch of his cock. Your name, your title, meimei, fell from his lips like a vow, as if pouring his soul into your body wasn’t enough.
And you, trembling and breathless, cried for him again. Not just from the pleasure. But from the fullness. From the knowing. Because in this moment, you weren’t just his lover.
You were his prayer.
And you were not stopping until he was satisfied. Until every drop of his desire carved itself into your skin. Until his name was the only sound left on your tongue. Until he’d wrung you dry and made you bloom again in the shape of his love.
· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·
The moment you slipped back into the waking world, it was gentle. There was no sharp edge, no ache beyond the soft hum in your bones. The sun had spilled through the windowpane like a blessing, golden and quiet, dust motes suspended in its light as if time had slowed just for you. And within that hush, there was a warmth wrapped around your body, tight but never too much. It smelled of heat, faint sweat, and something distinctly him. Caleb.
You blinked, eyelashes fluttering against the pillow, only to be met with his gaze. He was already awake, observing you sleep with that familiar quiet fondness in his eyes, the kind that made your chest swell too full, too fast. Like a held breath before the cry.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” he murmured, voice low, a little rough from sleep but still velvet-soft. “How was your sleep?” One hand reached up to ruffle your hair, fingers threading through with that same affection he always used to show you, back when you were still little, when his hand covered your whole head, when he’d pat you after a nightmare and tell you everything was okay.
“You slept pretty soundly,” he added, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I already cleaned you up, so don’t worry about a thing.”
You didn’t answer right away. Your throat was tight, filled with something wordless. Tears clung to your lashes, not of sadness, but disbelief. Out of gratitude that he was still here. Not a dream, not a mirage of longing stitched from your own desperation. But real. His skin, his breath, his voice. Caleb.
“Gege,” you breathed, voice breaking a little, “hold me tighter, please. Don’t let go.”
And he did. His arms wrapped around you, pressing you flush to his chest. You clung to him like the last thread in the world, your legs curling in despite the soreness that sang through your muscles. But your feet, they wouldn’t move. Not just sore, they were numb. You shifted, trying again, only to stumble in place. Your body gave a tiny jolt, and before you could panic, you heard it. His laughter.
“Ah, let your gege help you here, meimei,” he chuckled, voice bright, full of the warmth you hadn’t heard in so long. Not since those years when everything was simpler. “Up you go.”
He scooped you up without hesitation, your body sliding effortlessly into his arms like you were meant to be carried. He didn’t even blink at your weight. Just held you like you were something precious that belonged nowhere else. As he laid you back down gently, he spoke again, fingers tracing idle patterns through your hair.
“How did you like yesterday, meimei?” There was a soft tilt in his voice, teasing but full of care. “I think your hair’s very pretty. I like this style.”
A blush crept over your cheeks, warm and shy, so you buried your face in his chest. You nuzzled against him, hiding your fluster there, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin. His hand kept stroking you, slowly, as if he were still grounding you with every sweep.
You stayed there for a while, tangled up in his warmth, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart echo beneath your ear. Neither of you moved. Not really. Just the soft rise and fall of your bodies breathing together, his palm rubbing slow circles on your spine like a lullaby you never outgrew.
“…do you regret it?” you asked after a moment, your voice barely louder than the rustling sheets. You didn’t dare look up. You couldn’t. The question lingered like a crack in porcelain.
“Meimei,” he sighed, brushing your hair behind your ear, “you could never ask me something I’d regret less.”
You exhaled shakily, your fingers clenching into the blanket. But he didn’t let you retreat. He tilted your chin gently, guiding your gaze up until your eyes met his.
“I don’t regret you. I never did. I regret time. I regret hurting you. But you?” He leaned in, pressing his forehead against yours, lips brushing your nose. “You’re my favorite thing in the world. Still are.”
The words made your throat tighten. You bit your lip, blinking fast. “You’re so good to me, gege… even when I was broken.”
He smiled, nose nudging yours again. “You weren’t broken. You were hurt. And I wasn’t there to keep you safe. But I’m here now. I’m not going anywhere.”
You swallowed down a sob, one hand lifting to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing the stubble there. “Promise?”
He kissed the center of your palm, then the back of it, his fingers slotting perfectly between yours. “With every breath I’ve got left.”
You didn’t say anything more after that. Just curled closer, resting there in the morning hush, letting the weight of the night settle in your bones. The ache in your thighs, the love painted across your skin, the soft warmth between your legs, proof that everything had changed, and yet somehow, everything had returned to where it belonged. Eventually, he shifted, pressing one last kiss to your temple.
“Alright, sleepyhead,” he murmured, slipping out from beneath the covers with a groan, stretching his long limbs. “Let’s get you something warm to eat. You burned through enough calories last night to feed a small starship.”
You giggled, cheeks blooming pink as you turned over to watch him reach for his pants, tugging them on lazily. “You’re such a dork, gege.”
“And proud of it,” he winked, tossing you one of his oversized shirts. “Here. Wear this. You look better in my clothes anyway.”
You wriggled into it with a quiet laugh, the hem falling almost to your knees. It smelled like him. Of course it did. Warm, musky, a little like cinnamon and ozone, whatever gravity left behind when it kissed the skin of someone you loved.
He made his way out to the kitchen, whistling softly, humming one of those tunes he used to sing under his breath while cooking in the academy dorms. You followed behind, wobbly-legged but determined—until, halfway down the hall, your knees buckled slightly and you tripped into the wall.
“Oof—”
You caught yourself with a tiny yelp. He turned instantly, brows lifting, eyes wide.
“Meimei—”
You looked up, mortified for half a second, until he burst into laughter. Loud and bright and real.
“You alright?” he chuckled, walking back to scoop you into his arms like it was second nature. “Guess I really did break you a little, huh?”
You pouted, smacking his arm lightly. “Don’t tease me!”
He was already carrying you bridal style into the kitchen, grinning from ear to ear. “I’ll make you breakfast as an apology. With extra fruit.”
And just like that, the world felt whole again. Like the stars had realigned. Like home wasn’t a place or a planet, but a heartbeat beside yours, a laugh in the morning, the smell of pancakes and old memories mixing in the air.
Everything was back in place.
You were finally home.











