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YOU

pairing. caleb x afab!reader

synopsis. maybe the problem isn't the stalker, maybe it's the one being stalked.

tags. nsfw, modern college au, strong yandere themes, dead dove, dubcon, obsession, stalking, killing, violence, manipulation, slowburn, plot-based, sexual tension, a bit of one-sided pining, somnophilia, depraved!caleb, yearning!caleb, detached!reader, m!masturbating, heavy make outs, fingering, p in v, reverse cowgirl, backshots, rough sex, strictly 18+

a/n. this is incredibly long and perhaps a lot to take in, i got carried away and did too much effort on this ^^; i suggest reading this when you're fully free ;D ps. image isn't mine. ctto.

wc. 18k (help me)

you never knew how it felt to be stalked by a guy long enough for your entire connections to be known, never knew how it felt to be obsessed over quite enough for the people close to you to disappear.

most of all, you never knew, would it had come from the guy most people refer to as a golden boy.

caleb knows you a bit too well. he knows the time you tend to feel most restless, the days you skip meals without noticing, the precise expression you make when something irritates you—not enough to complain, just enough to remember.

he knows because he’s watched, because he’s listened, because he’s arranged himself around the negative space of your life until the outline became clear.

you never call it attraction.

you just tell yourself, caleb would know, when a choice presents itself.

and every time you do, he gets close enough to see how little room you leave for anyone else.

you’re seated at the long oak table by the east windows at the school's library, the one that catches light only in the afternoon. and caleb knows this because he has noticed the pattern. he adjusts his steps to arrive when you’re already settled, coat folded on the chair beside you, book open but untouched for the last several minutes.

you don’t look up when he stops at the edge of the table.

“hey,”

you glance up then, and your eyes pass over him with the same neutral recognition you give the shelves, the lamps, the exit signs.

“hi,” you say.

caleb smiles anyway, he always does as a golden boy. it’s a good tool. it opens space.

“studying?” he asks, already knowing the answer. the textbook’s spine is creased in the same place it always is. page 214. you never dog-ear; you use a receipt as a bookmark. today it’s from a café two blocks away. he clocks the date without thinking.

“trying, it’s quieter here.”

it is. the library smells faintly of dust and pages. he likes places that cooperate. “mind if i sit?” he asks, even as his hand is already on the chair across from you.

you shrug. “go ahead.”

permission granted without weight. it settles in his chest, warm and sure. he sits, careful not to scrape the floor. he places his bag down precisely, knees aligned with the table leg.

you return to your book, as your attention moves away from him so completely it’s almost surgical. caleb watches the way your fingers rest against the margin.

“i ran into your friend earlier,” he says casually. “he asked about you.”

your page turns. “yea?”

“yeah, said he hadn’t heard from you in a while.”

you hum, noncommittal. “i’ve been busy.”

caleb nods like this explains everything. it does, in its way. busy is useful. busy thins things out. busy creates gaps. “if you need help with anything, you know. notes, rides, food runs.”

you finally look at him again. “i know.”

that’s all. no gratitude, no warmth. the words land and stop. caleb feels a small, private satisfaction anyway. knowing is enough. awareness precedes dependence.

as you read, his attention drifts—not away from you, never that, but inward, where his thoughts arrange themselves neatly. he imagines this table without the extra chair. imagines you alone, every day, because there’s no one else left to ask. imagines your routines tightening until they circle him naturally, like a well-designed system.

he wonders, idly, how long it would take before you stopped noticing his presence entirely, before he became part of the architecture.

“what are you working on?”

you tilt the book so he can see the title. “research methods.”

“fun,” he says, dry. “want help?”

“nope.”

caleb’s smile doesn’t flicker. he likes your no’s. they make everything else feel earned. “okay, i’ll just… be here.” he doesn’t need to say why, he's already bringing out a book he will pretend to work on infront of you.

your sleeve slips down as you adjust your posture. he notices the line of skin at your wrist, the faint indentation where your watch usually sits. today it’s missing. he doesn’t linger on it the way a lover would. he catalogs it, the way one notes a missing screw in a machine that otherwise runs perfectly.

you shift again, crossing your legs.

he thinks about your home, sparsely furnished and everything placed for efficiency. he’s been there enough times to know where the spare key is hidden, though he’s never used it. no need. patience sharpens the edges of things.

“you eating later?” he pretends to bury his eyes onto the book.

“probably, haven’t decided.”

“i can bring something by,” he offers. “save you the trouble.”

you consider this for half a second. not him—just the logistics. “sure, that’d help.”

help. the word warms him more than affection ever could.

“text me what you want,” he smiles.

you nod, already gone again, mind back in the book. caleb watches your breathing slow into a steady rhythm. he imagines it continuing like this, uninterrupted, because he removes anything that might disturb it; noise and mess and people who take up space they don’t deserve.

someone just laughs too loudly at a table across the room and caleb’s jaw already tightens almost imperceptibly. he releases it just as quickly though, because not now. this place is orderly. it will correct itself.

he stands after a while, smooth and unhurried. “i’ll let you work,”

“okay,” you reply, without looking up.

he pauses, just long enough to be seen if you were paying attention. you aren’t. that’s fine. he leaves with a smile anyway.

~

you text him at 6:17 p.m.

[name]:

burger’s fine the one from elm street ! get one for yourself too, i’ll pay you when you get here. :)

caleb reads it once, then again.

elm street is six blocks out of the way, but the rain has already started, loud and impatient against the pavement, the kind that turns the city into a smear of motion and noise. he checks the forecast anyway, out of habit, as if it might surprise him.

as expected, heavy rain, gusts, and limited visibility.

“okay,” he types back. “be there soon.”

he doesn’t hesitate. hesitation would imply negotiation, and there isn’t one. you asked. that’s the beginning and the end of it.

he leaves the school building with his jacket buttoned wrong, and he notices only after he’s already halfway down the steps. the umbrella he grabs from his bagpack is the flimsy one, the one that bends inward when the wind gets merciless. it doesn’t matter.

the city looks different when it’s wet. surfaces shine, edges blur. caleb likes it. it simplifies people.

as he walks, he thinks about the way you phrased it. "get one for yourself too." not an invitation, but an instruction that saves you the trouble of refusing later. considerate in the way you’re always considerate, without sentiment.

he imagines arriving back at the library, rain-soaked, bag held carefully away from his body so the paperwrapper won’t soften. imagines you looking up from your books with that neutral expression, eyes flicking briefly to the bag before moving back to his face. you’ll say “thanks!” you always do and say it like that.

the rain thickens, as his shoes darken at the seams. water slips down the back of his collar, cold and precise. he adjusts his grip on the umbrella, angling it forward, though the wind keeps catching it, tugging like a spoiled child.

halfway across the main road, a bus roars past too close. caleb registers it in parts: the sound, the pressure, the sudden arc of brown water lifting off the curb.

suddenly, mud splashes up his side, violent and abrupt, streaking across the white of his uniform. it blooms like a bruise.

he looks down at it. "ah..."

there’s a moment—small, contained—where he considers turning back to change and arrive clean. the thought dissolves almost immediately though.

you didn’t ask for clean.

so he continues walking.

at the burger place, the line is too long. people drip onto the tile floor, smelling like wet fabric and impatience. caleb stands still, posture perfect despite the water gathering at the hem of his sleeves and dripping down his hair locks. he doesn’t shake it off.

when it’s his turn, he orders without looking at the menu. “i'll have two double cheese burgers please,” he smiles, remniscient of a wet golden retriever. “no onions on one.”

the cashier nods, bored. caleb pays without thinking, you’ll reimburse him later. or you won’t. either way, the exchange has already served its purpose.

he waits, hands folded loosely in front of him. his reflection in the stainless steel is distorted—mud-streaked, hair darkened by rain, lilac eyes steady. he looks like someone who has been through something minor and inconvenient. he likes that too.

the bag is warm when he takes it. he adjusts his hold, cradling it instinctively to keep the heat in. the rain greets him again with renewed enthusiasm. but the umbrella finally gives a sharp, pathetic bend, one of its ribs snapping inward.

caleb doesn’t curse, he simply angles it differently and keeps going.

he imagines you eating, he imagines watching from across the table, tail wagging, saying nothing.

by the time he reaches the school gates, the rain has soaked through everything. his uniform clings uncomfortably and mud has dried in uneven streaks. he looks down at the bag once more, checks for leaks. it’s intact.

he’s adjusting his grip on the paper bag—still warm—when he sees you.

you’re coming down the steps, backpack slung over one shoulder, posture loose in that way that means you’re done for the day. beside you is a man caleb recognizes only vaguely: a face he’s seen in passing, a name he’s heard once or twice and didn’t bother to keep. not important enough to catalog. not until now.

who is he?

the man laughs at something you say. caleb doesn’t hear it, but he can see it in the shape of your mouth, the small tilt of your head. then, with an almost rehearsed politeness, the man lifts his umbrella and angles it over you.

you hesitate just for a beat. caleb feels it like a skipped stair as his pace slows.

then you step closer and accept. “thanks,”

you start walking, not toward him, but away.

caleb stops.

it’s not dramatic, his feet simply don’t take the next step. he watches the two of you merge into the flow of pedestrians, his eyes following the pattern of your strides, and even the umbrella tilting slightly to keep rain off your shoulder.

and then, his phone vibrates.

he already knows what it will say.

[name]:

sorry, caleb. i’m heading home with a friend you can cancel the burger.

he reads it once, then again.

the bag is still warm in his hand, grease has begun to soften the paper at the corners. he thinks, briefly and absurdly, that he should eat it while it’s still hot. food shouldn’t be wasted.

his eyes lift again, finding you easily. the umbrella dips as you step off the curb, the man adjusting it clumsily. caleb notes the poor angle, the way rain still hits your sleeve. amateur.

his thumbs move.

[caleb] okay :)

the smiley face feels right...

he doesn’t feel angry. anger would require surprise, and this doesn’t have that quality. this is just information. a variable briefly introduced, nothing more.

but caleb tries his best to ignore the sinking feeling in his chest.

he tucks his phone away and starts walking again, pace unhurried. he doesn’t follow too closely. that would be rude. he stays far enough back that he could be anyone—another student, another figure moving through rain with somewhere to be.

he watches the way you lean slightly inward under the umbrella. the way the man angles himself protectively without quite knowing how. caleb almost smiles. it’s clumsy.

he thinks, not unkindly, that you’ll be damp by the time you get home. the man’s umbrella is too small for two. you’ll probably forget to hang your jacket to dry.

he crosses the street when you do, but not at the same light. he stays on the opposite sidewalk, reflection fractured in shop windows.

for a fleeting moment, something almost playful stirs in him. a faint amusement at how neat it all is, how unaware you are of the shape forming around you.

you think the burger is canceled.

you think the evening has simply rearranged itself.

caleb adjusts his pace, keeping you in sight as the street bends.

he has time.

the man beside you laughs again. that stupid, easy smile. almost cute.

it makes caleb’s jaw tighten just enough to feel pleasure. almost, he thinks, but not quite. caleb lets the rain slick street guide his steps, following quietly, calculating.

and by the time the two of you reach your porch, by the time you finally went inside to leave your little friend alone, when he turns to an alleyway that cuts through to a side street, caleb is ready. the timing is precise—he lunges the instant the man is slightly ahead, stepping into the narrow corridor as if it belongs only to him.

the man doesn’t understand immediately, feeling caleb’s strong hands find his throat without warning. strength measured and restraint practiced. the alley swallows his sounds, struggling against the ground, coughing and gasping.

“what—what the hell—?” your friend chokes out, wide-eyed.

caleb says nothing, he just watches the movement of the man’s chest, watches the panic flare. he imagines your terrified face if you were here. it steels him.

the man fights back, strong enough to shove him off for a moment. "what's wrong with you–?" a punch lands, catching caleb's mouth. a quick, sharp pain. he tastes a bit of blood but doesn’t falter.

instead, he pivots, countering immediately. the punches become a rhythm, measured but a bit out of place. he doesn’t lose himself in anger; every movement designed to correct, to remove obstacles.

finally, he finds what he needs: a large, irregular stone at the edge of the alley. it’s heavy.

he swings.

the sharp edge of the form slams against the man's hard temple, and instantly he falls against the concrete once more. "fuck you—!" and he's cut off by caleb's yet another swing.

again, "ghh!" and again, and again, blood starts to paint caleb's cheek, and again, "augh!" each time imagining only the one whose presence justifies the act. the man's face is already pooled with nothing but red, eyes unalive, unblinking.

at last, unconsciousness. caleb pants, chest and shoulders rising. he drops the stone, and the alley is now silent except for the pattering rain.

he looks down.

the man isn’t moving now. caleb doesn’t crouch immediately. he knows better than to rush the end of things. stillness has a texture to it; he waits until it’s certain. until the body has decided what it is.

only then does he kneel.

your name drifts through his mind, more like a constant hum. and his mouth aches faintly, he tastes it with his tongue and tastes copper. how inconvenient. caleb exhales once, steadying himself, and reaches for the man’s collar.

“sorry,” he pulls the shirt up and over the man’s head with careful efficiency. fabric tears a little at the seam. he folds the cloth and uses it to wipe his mouth, his knuckles, then the edge of his jaw. he presses firmly but not roughly. there’s no reason to bruise himself further.

he works methodically, cleaning until his skin looks like his again. the shirt darkens with use, absorbing what shouldn’t be seen. when he’s done, he wraps it around the man’s hands, then his face—gentle, almost considerate. modesty should still be a habit...

he checks his reflection in a darkened window at the end of the alley.

a little pale, eyes bright, face bruised from your friend's punch, with a few of his damp fringes sticking to his forehead.

as for the rest—he’s already thought it through. the alley opens into a service road, there’s a construction site two blocks down, poorly fenced and poorly lit.

he grips the man beneath the arms and drags him a short distance, adjusting when necessary. it’s heavier than he’d like, but manageable.

all the while, he imagines you at home. maybe you’re already inside, shoes kicked off neatly by the door. maybe you’ve forgotten about the burger entirely. you tend to do that—release things once they’re no longer relevant.

he likes that about you.

caleb checks the time on his phone.

too late, by most standards. late enough that reasonable people would call it a night, late enough that the rain—still falling, thin and persistent—has driven everyone sensible indoors. the screen glows briefly against his damp palm before he slips the phone away.

he buys the burger again, because he accidentally stepped on the one he bought earlier while he was disposing the remnants of an added body count. the cashier doesn’t recognize him; caleb looks different now, hair still wet, backpack sagging and misshapen from rain and weight. his umbrella is gone somewhere behind him in the city, forgotten and surrendered.

the paper bag is warm when he steps back outside. he walks the rest of the way without shelter, rain darkening his clothes further, water threading down his neck, soaking the strap of his backpack until it clings unpleasantly to his shoulder.

he doesn’t rush.

by the time he reaches your house, he looks like he’s been through a disaster, with shoes leaving faint, damp prints on your porch.

he rings the doorbell once. he's known your address because of your recent study session with your blockmates together, or did he really?

inside, he hears movement. and then the door opens.

you freeze, just slightly.

your eyes take him in without asking permission: the state of him, the wet hair pushed back from his forehead, the way rain has sharpened the lines of his face instead of softening them. he looks worn-down and absurdly composed all at once. still… him.

“caleb?” you say, incredibly confused. “what—”

he lifts the bag gently between you, like an offering. “you wanted a burger,” he smiles, voice low. “figured you might still be hungry.”

you stare at the bag, then at him. “i—didn't you read my text?”

“mm, i know.”

that only confuses you more...

rain drips from his sleeve onto your doorstep. you don’t move out of the way. you’re still processing—his presence, the timing, the contradiction. he watches it all with quiet attentiveness, cataloging the way your expression shifts, the way your hand lifts halfway and stops.

“you’re very soaked,” you say finally. there’s a faint edge of distress now, practical in nature. “why are you—”

he doesn’t answer. he steps closer instead, just enough that the warmth from inside your home brushes against his skin. his knees feel suddenly unreliable, like they’ve been holding a line longer than intended.

you reach for the bag, fingers closing around the warm paper. “caleb, this is—”

that’s when he lets go.

not dramatically, not all at once. his weight simply tips forward, the last of his restraint slipping quietly away. his head brushes past your cheek, and then he’s there—collapsed against you, shoulder to shoulder, heavier than you expected.

“caleb—?” you gasp, startled, instinctively catching him. “what’s wrong?”

his head rests briefly against your shoulder, damp hair brushing your collarbone. for a second—just one—he allows himself to feel the simple fact of you holding him up.

“sorry,” he murmurs, faint and sincere. “guess i pushed it a bit, pip.”

your arms tense, unsure where to go, what to do. you’re not thinking about his feelings. you’re thinking about the mess he’s tracking in instead, the absurdity of a burger pressed between you.

“you’re… you’re bleeding?” you say, noticing his mouth, the faint mark he didn’t quite erase.

“it’s... nothing,” he answers, already closing his eyes, before completely fainting.

~

consciousness returns to caleb slowly, like a tide that doesn’t announce itself.

first, there’s softness beneath him. but it's not the rigid give of a couch or the utilitarian flatness of a mattress he knows.

he blinks.

the ceiling comes into focus—plain, faintly shadowed by light from the street filtering through curtains. his eyes drift, cataloging before understanding. the faint scent in the room isn’t detergent or rain. it’s you. something he’s only ever encountered in fragments before.

he exhales.

his body registers itself next. same clothes are still on. damp, but not against fabric—there’s a towel beneath him, folded carefully, placed with intention so the bed wouldn’t absorb what he brought in from outside.

he turns his head.

you’re sitting beside the bed in a simple chair with a small basin on the floor near your feet. you’re wringing out a towel between your hands, it’s much tinier than the one beneath him.

for him.

you don’t look at him immediately. “you’re finally awake,”

“hello,” his voice is rougher than he expects. he swallows.

you stand and step closer, bringing the towel with you. he watches the way you fold it once before lifting it to his face. gentle pressure at the corner of his mouth, cool against the bruise.

“what happened?” you ask. “did you get into a fight?”

caleb considers the truth—not the whole of it, just the outline. he measures how much weight the word can carry without collapsing the structure you’re both standing on. “…yeah, i did.”

it’s enough.

you frown slightly. not in disappointment—more like concern redirected inward, calculating what that means. whether it needs follow-up, whether it explains the state you found him in. “you should be more careful,” you say, absently, as you dab at his lip again.

“i'm sorry,” he murmurs, because that’s what fits there.

your focus doesn’t waver as you clean the edge of the bruise, fingers brushing his skin with unthinking precision.

he feels it everywhere. his body reacts before his mind can smooth it over. heat creeps up his neck, and his ears feel too warm. he’s acutely aware of the way he’s lying in your bed, the way you’re standing so close, the way your attention is fixed on him without reverence or fear.

you’re not tending to him because you care about his inner life. you’re doing it because it’s necessary, that’s what makes it unbearable.

his fingers twitch once against the sheets, then still. he doesn’t want to move. movement might fracture this moment, and he wants it intact.

“does it hurt?” you finally look at him properly.

“no, not really, pips.”

you hum softly, accepting the answer without probing. you finish with the towel and step back, setting it aside. he immediately feels the distance.

his chest feels light and jittery, alive in a way that’s almost inconvenient. he’s exactly where he wants to be.

you come back with a shirt folded over your arm.

it’s yours—oversized even on you. you hold it out to him, eyes already drifting toward the door as if the exchange is finished the moment it begins. “this should fit, you should change. your clothes are still damp.”

caleb pushes himself up on his elbows, the movement slower than necessary. he takes the shirt, fingers brushing the fabric, “okay,”

you turn, already halfway out of the room, when his hand closes around your wrist. the contact alone is enough to stop you, unexpected weight anchoring you in place.

you look back at him.

caleb’s expression is... careful and faintly apologetic, vulnerable in a way that’s been curated rather than stumbled into. his grip remains gentle, almost tentative, as if he’s waiting to see whether you’ll pull away.

“hey,” he says softly. “can you—wait a second?”

your brow furrows. “what?”

he exhales, a small sound, and shifts just enough to wince, deliberately. “i think i pulled something,” he frowns at himself. “my torso feels… really sore. 's hard to move.”

you glance at him, unconvinced. your eyes flick—not to his face, but to his arms. his biceps, still defined even slack.

“you?” you tilt your head. “with those arms? you’ll survive.”

caleb huffs a quiet laugh, corner of his mouth lifting. “big guys feel pain too, you know.”

it’s almost playful. but you frown, unimpressed.

he looks up at you then, properly, lashes lowered, expression softening into something deliberately pitiful. a practiced helplessness, remniscient of a puppy. the kind that works on people who want to believe in it.

you don’t.

your wrist remains in his hand, and you sigh.

“fine,” you reach for the edge of his jacket. “don’t be dramatic.”

caleb’s breath catches—not visibly, not enough that you’d comment on it—but he feels it all the same. you undo the buttons with brisk efficiency, tug the fabric free from his shoulders. the jacket slips off and lands folded on the chair.

next is the polo. your fingers brush his side as you lift it over his head. the contact is brief, incidental, but it lights something sharp and electric under his skin. he keeps his eyes on the wall behind you, jaw tight, as if looking at you directly might undo him.

the undershirt comes last.

you pause, just barely. “arms up,” and he does.

fabric slides upward, peeling away inch by inch. his torso is bare now, marked only by faint tension and the shallow rise and fall of his breathing. caleb feels it then—the space between you narrowing, the quiet thickening. he wonders, absurdly, if you feel it too.

you do.

you just don’t let it show.

your gaze flicks down despite yourself, a glance you probably didn’t intend to give, catching on the lines of his abdomen, his abs, before snapping back up.

he gulps.

you clear your throat and step back, folding the damp clothes with unnecessary firmness. “there, you’re fine. next time, don’t overdo it.”

he doesn’t answer. he just looks at you with a softened, open expression that hovers somewhere between need and embarrassment, like he’s been caught wanting something he knows better than to ask for.

you notice. “…what?” you say, exasperated. “don’t tell me you need help putting the shirt on too?”

his head shakes immediately. “no—no, i’m good,” he says, voice a little too quick. “just—uh. sore. i can manage.”

he reaches for the shirt you brought, grateful for the barrier, and pulls it over his head. it hangs loose on him, fabric skimming his torso instead of clinging. yours, unmistakably. caleb smooths it down, grounding himself in the feel of it.

you watch for a moment, “do you need to change your bottoms too? i can look for something.”

“it’s okay, i’m fine.”

you accept that easily. too easily. you nod once, already halfway turned away when he says your name.

you stop and look back at him again, one brow lifting in mild question. patient, but faintly expectant—like you’re bracing for something inconvenient.

caleb swallows. “hey,” he rubs the back of his neck, shoulders slightly hunched now that the moment has caught up to him. “thank you, for taking care 'f me. and for the shirt. and—” he gestures vaguely, encompassing the room. “for everything.”

his smile comes easy, the familiar one. boyish and a little cheeky.

you look at him for a beat. then your mouth curves, just a little. “you’re welcome, try not to get into fights every time it rains.”

caleb laughs, a soft huff of a sound. “no promises.”

something in his chest loosens—then tightens again, because the smile you gave him wasn’t deep, it was real. you didn’t owe it to him, and that’s exactly why it lands.

he feels it settle in his bones.

for one reckless, vivid second, he wants to close the distance between you. to grab you, lift you, press his mouth to yours and feel the thought stop being hypothetical.

the image flashes bright and dangerous, so immediate it nearly makes him dizzy.

he doesn’t move. instead, he looks at you.

really looks—letting the feeling burn quietly behind his eyes while his face stays harmless. the boy-next-door facade fits him well. people trust it. you trust it.

the words "i like you" hover at the back of his throat. they feel insufficient, premature, and clumsy. saying them now would be like knocking on a door that isn’t meant to be opened yet.

so he doesn’t say anything at all.

~

two weeks pass.

caleb measures them anyway. he starts to show up more. when you leave class, when you’re deciding where to eat, when you’re reaching for something you didn’t realize you needed help with until he’s already offering it.

his timing is always impeccable. too impeccable, if anyone were paying attention.

you don’t comment on it.

you remain as you always are: calm, receptive in a practical way. you accept what’s useful. you decline what isn’t.

and caleb watches for a change that never comes— there's no softening, no emotional echoes. and still, he persists.

“isn't this the place you like?” he says one afternoon, when he insisted on walking you home, gesturing toward a small café you’ve never mentioned aloud. “they don’t over-sweeten their drinks.”

you blink at him. “yeah, how’d you know?”

he smiles, “guess.”

it keeps happening. the music he puts on when you’re in the car—songs you never said you liked, only listened to once when you thought you were alone. the way he orders food exactly how you prefer it, down to exclusions you’ve never bothered correcting in other people. the books he recommends, always landing a little too close to your taste.

“we’re quite similar,” he answers once, when you raise an eyebrow at yet another coincidence.

“i guess,” you reply, unconcerned.

and then, one friday night, the house is already overflowing when caleb arrives at the party he's been invited into.

people call his name the moment he steps inside, bunch of hands clap his shoulders. someone presses a drink into his palm without asking, and a girl he barely remembers leans in, laughing too close, eyes bright with expectation. "you've finally arrived!"

he grins, of course he does.

it’s the right response. it keeps things easy.

but he doesn’t move far from the wall near the living room, where the shadows soften the edges of things. he plants himself there, with eyes drifting instinctively toward the front door every few seconds.

he heard you were coming.

one of the seniors mentioned it casually—oh, yeah, she said she might drop by later—and that alone had tipped the scale. caleb hadn’t planned on staying long tonight, but you give shape to things.

so he waits.

the music grows louder with the bass vibrating through the floor, through his ribs. people dance, shout, spill drinks. a girl brushes his arm and smiles like it means something. he smiles back automatically, then looks past her head.

not you.

his brow tightens, just a little.

where are you?

he checks the time on his phone with just a glance. it's still early. you’re not late yet. you’re just… not here.

caleb tells himself this is fine. you don’t owe the night anything. you don’t owe him anything.

still, he keeps watching the door.

laughter erupts somewhere behind him. one of his friends grabs his wrist, tries to pull him into the center of the room. “come on,” they shout over the music. “don’t be boring.”

caleb laughs, lets himself be tugged a step forward, then gently disentangles.

“in a bit,” he winks. “i’m good here.”

he returns to the corner like it’s gravity, like the space is meant to hold him. from here, he can see everything. the staircase. the kitchen. the front door. he catalogs faces as they come and go, dismissing them almost instantly.

not you.

the longer it goes on, the harder it is to keep the smile in place. his frown deepens without him noticing, an expression out of sync with the rest of the room. around him, people are laughing, carefree, loud with borrowed joy.

caleb feels oddly detached from it all.

he imagines you arriving later—quietly, maybe, scanning the room once before committing. he imagines spotting you immediately, the way he always does. imagines the subtle recalibration of the night the moment you’re present.

suddenly, someone hooks an arm around his neck and laughs straight into his ear. “do it,” his friend yells, already half-dancing. “come on. you always do it.”

caleb exhales through a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “no,” he shakes his head. “i’m not in the mood.”

“you’re never ‘in the mood,’” another voice cuts in. “that’s why it’s funny.”

hands push at his back, nudging him forward. the music surges, bass heavy enough to feel like a second pulse. caleb resists for a moment longer out of habit, it’s easier to give in than to explain why he’s been standing still for nearly an hour, eyes fixed on the front door like he’s waiting for something to break.

“fine,” he lifts both hands in mock surrender. “one minute, alright?”

and they cheer like they’ve won something, so he lets himself be pulled into the center of the room, where the lights are brighter and the air is warmer, thick with sweat and perfume and noise.

someone presses a bottle into his hand—water, thankfully—and before he can think better of it, the crowd starts chanting his name.

caleb laughs, genuinely this time. it bubbles up despite himself, because distraction is useful. he moves with the rhythm easily, and he tips the bottle over his head and lets the water spill freely, soaking his hair, streaking down his face and neck, plastering his white shirt to his torso.

the reaction is immediate. the scene causes screams to cut through the music, the attention is loud and uncomplicated and flattering in the most shallow way.

caleb grins, spins once, lifts the bottle again and spills the last of it down his chest.

for a brief, reckless stretch of seconds, it’s fun. genuinely. the kind of fun that asks nothing of him beyond being seen.

and then—

he sees you.

you’re standing just off to the side, near the edge of the room where the lights dim and the crowd thins, watching.

your eyes meet his.

and then, everything else falls away.

the music dulls like it’s been wrapped in cloth. the shouting fades to a low, distant roar. caleb’s smile falters, muscles forgetting what they were doing. his heart even stutters, then pounds so hard it makes him lightheaded.

you’re wearing a dress.

it shouldn’t matter but it does. it falls against you effortlessly, like it was always meant to.

you were watching him and the realization burns. he feels suddenly exposed, absurdly aware of his wet shirt, his damp hair, the heat still radiating off him from movement and attention. the contrast between the spectacle he’s making and the quiet way you’re seeing him makes his chest tighten painfully.

his body stops moving entirely.

then you look away.

just like that.

you turn, slipping through the bodies with the same unhurried ease you always have, as if nothing significant has occurred. as if you haven’t just rearranged him from the inside out. you don’t even glance back.

caleb almost jolts.

his breath comes shallow, his hand tightening reflexively around the empty bottle before he drops it to the floor.

someone calls his name again, laughing, reaching for him.

but he pulls free.

“hey, where’re you going?”

he doesn’t answer.

he pushes through the crowd, eyes scanning desperately for the curve of your shoulder, the fall of your hair.

the room feels wrong now—it's too loud, too bright, and too crowded. his heart won’t slow down. his thoughts fracture, scattering around a single, urgent point.

don’t leave yet.

he moves faster, following the path you took, letting instinct override everything else.

he has to see you again.

the crowd thins as he moves toward the back of the house, the noise loosening its grip the closer he gets to the open doors. and there you are, seated near the pool, slightly apart from the chaos.

people are clustered around you—laughing loudly, perhaps tipsy with limbs slung carelessly over deck chairs. someone jumps into the water fully clothed. another spills a drink and doesn’t care. you sit at the edge of it all, cup in hand, smiling.

caleb slows.

are you drinking?

the question hits him harder than it should. he watches the way you lift the cup, the way your fingers curl around it.

your expression doesn’t give anything away. you don’t look loose, or dulled, or different. you look exactly like yourself.

good.

then someone notices him.

“oh shit,” a girl laughs, nudging the person beside her. “it’s caleb.”

heads turn, and the circle opens.

“get over here,” someone calls, waving him closer. “why’re you hiding?”

you look up then.

and your eyes meet his again, briefly. no surprise this time, just recognition. like spotting a familiar object in a room you already understand.

caleb steps forward, heart steadying as he joins the group. his shirt is still damp, clinging in places, loose in others. he feels the cool night air against his skin in a way that makes him acutely aware of his body.

one of them whistles. “damn. the wet look works on you.”

“yeah,” another voice adds. “he really was overdoing it back there... don't do that unless you want them to keep fawning over you.”

caleb laughs, soft and easy, lifting his shoulders in a small shrug. “i'll keep that in mind.”

the conversation shifts quickly—school gossip, someone’s messy breakup, a professor everyone hates, and rumors about who hooked up with who. caleb listens just enough to respond when expected, nodding, smiling, reacting at the right moments.

but his attention keeps drifting.

of course to you.

he steals glances when he thinks no one’s watching. the way your smile flickers when someone says something amusing. the way you tilt your head as you listen, engaged—but not invested.

you speak occasionally, concise and measured, then fall quiet again.

you never look at him.

it’s not avoidance, it’s indifference, pure and unadorned.

you don’t glance his way. you don’t seek him out. you don’t acknowledge the way he’s angled slightly toward you, attention bent in your direction like a compass needle that refuses to behave.

he smiles at a joke someone makes, laughs when it’s appropriate, but all the while his eyes keep betraying him—slipping back to you, again and again.

someone laughs too loudly and says, “okay, but seriously—let's talk about crushes.”

a chorus of groans and cheers follows. couples are named, denied, and confirmed. someone admits to texting their ex. someone else pretends not to care.

then the attention tilts toward you. “what about you?” a guy asks, leaning back on his hands. “you seeing anyone?”

you shake your head lightly. “no.”

“but do you want to? like—are you planning to get into a relationship anytime soon?”

caleb’s spine straightens without him realizing it. the noise around him fades just enough for your answer to matter too much.

you hum, thoughtful. “i don’t know.. maybe.”

“that’s not an answer,” someone teases.

“okay, then—do you have a crush?”

there’s a beat.

you say, “perhaps i do.”

caleb’s heart stutters. it’s not cinematic. it’s the quiet, visceral sensation of something missing a step and never quite landing where it should. his breath catches. his fingers curl slightly at his side.

you have a crush...?

his mind races ahead of itself, cataloging faces, voices, hands that might have lingered too close to you. anyone who has laughed with you too easily. anyone who has walked you home. anyone who has dared to—

“who?” someone asks immediately. “spill it!”

you smile to yourself first.

then you lift your gaze.

to him.

you just look at caleb, eyes unreadable, holding his for a second too long to be accidental.

his system short-circuits, eyes widening a fraction before he can stop them.

the world sharpens and blurs at the same time. he forgets how to sit like a normal person, how to smile on cue, how to breathe without effort.

you look away, and then you sway.

it happens too fast.

your shoulders dip as your hand comes up to your head like you’re trying to catch it before it falls. your cup tilts, liquid spilling a bit darkly down the front of your clothes, splashing onto the concrete.

“whoa—hey—”

“are you okay?”

caleb registers the number only distantly—someone muttering, half-impressed, half-alarmed, “she’s had like… nine shots, right?”—as if it’s trivia, not explanation.

you’re drunk, more than he thought, more than you should be.

your cup slips from your fingers entirely this time, clattering uselessly as you press your palm to your temple, frowning faintly like the sensation is inconvenient rather than alarming.

“she’s fine,” someone says, uncertain.

caleb is the one who speaks next.

“hey,” he lifts his hands in a calming gesture. “let’s not make it a whole thing. she just needs to lie down for a bit. don’t kill the vibe.” it sounds generous, almost thoughtful.

no one argues right away.

caleb steps closer, and his arm slides behind your back, steadying you before anyone else can decide to do it. “i’ve got her,” he adds, already committing to the role.

someone snorts. “look at you.”

“didn’t know you were like that, caleb.”

he laughs, soft and unbothered, and bends without ceremony. one arm under your knees, the other at your back. you make a small, incoherent sound as he lifts you, surprised by the sudden absence of the ground.

you’re lighter than he imagined.

your body settles against his chest instinctively, head tipping toward his shoulder. your fingers clutch weakly at his damp shirt, more reflex than intention.

the group watches and a few eyes narrow, a few smiles turn teasing instead of amused.

“taking her upstairs already? bold.”

caleb glances over his shoulder, grin easy and boyish. “just gonna let her sleep it off, it's best to bring her back when she’s not about to pass out.”

it’s said with such natural confidence that it closes the subject. the attention drifts back to the pool, the drinks, the noise. suspicion dissolves into disinterest.

good, he thinks.

he turns toward the stairs, indulging in the quiet thrill of it—the way your weight presses into him, warm and unresisting. your head bumps lightly against his collarbone as he climbs, words slipping out of you in fragments.

“hey,” he murmurs, amused. “easy.”

you don’t answer. your eyes are half-lidded, unfocused, lashes dark against your cheeks. each step creaks underfoot. the party noise fades behind him, replaced by the dull hush of the upper floor.

“you really overdid it, you know that?” he says lightly, as if you can still comprehend him. “nine shots... impressive, irresponsible, i’m a little proud.”

your head tilts toward his voice. he imagines you listening, he imagines you understanding. “don’t worry though,” he adds, adjusting his grip, “i’ve got you.”

he carries you down the hall, savoring the simplicity of it—the way the night has finally narrowed to just the two of you. and he doesn’t hurry at all.

he fumbles for the door with his shoulder, nudging it open inch by inch while keeping his hold on you steady.

then he steps inside and eases the door shut behind him, the click sounds louder than it should.

“okay, here we are.”

the bed creaks softly as he lowers you onto it, careful, impossibly careful, like you might bruise from the wrong kind of attention. he adjusts you so your head meets the pillow, one hand lingering at your side longer than necessary before he pulls back.

for a second, you’re still.

then you stir.

your eyes flutter open, brows knitting together in faint protest. you push yourself up on your elbows, unsteady but stubborn. “i’m okay,” you mumble, words slurring into each other. “i’m fine. i can—”

“nope. lie down. you’re not fine—you’re drunk.” caleb presses his palm to your shoulder, just enough pressure to guide you back down. "you took care of me last time, now it's my turn."

you let out a small sound of complaint as you sink back into the mattress. your head rolls to the side, hair spilling messily across the pillow.

god.

he exhales slowly through his nose, grounding himself. you look unreal like this—softened by exhaustion with defenses dulled, mouth parted slightly as if mid-thought you forgot to finish. it would be so easy.

he doesn’t move closer.

he won’t.

“you really went all in tonight,” he says lightly, trying to keep the warmth in his voice from tipping into something else. “overachiever.”

you respond with a string of quiet nonsense, syllables bumping into each other without direction. something about the music. something about being tired. something that might be his name—or might not.

he smiles despite himself. “yeah,” he murmurs, indulging you. “i know. totally makes sense.”

he reaches out, fingers hovering for a heartbeat before he lets himself touch you at all. just your hair. just that. he tucks a loose strand back from your face, knuckles grazing your temple by accident.

you sigh, content, eyes slipping shut again.

that sound hits him low and dangerous.

“there you go,” he whispers, almost absurdly gentle. “just sleep, okay? i’ve got you.”

you mumble again, softer this time, words dissolving before they can mean anything. he answers anyway, nodding, “mmhmm. yeah. i know.”

his hand lingers at the edge of your hair, then withdraws, curling into a fist at his side as if to physically hold himself in place. his chest feels too full, too tight, emotion pressing up against restraint until it almost trembles.

he loves you in a way that feels unmanageable.

suddenly, a knock sounded.

three quick raps against the door, cutting straight through the quiet he’d carved out for the two of you.

caleb’s expression changes instantly.

the softness drains from his face, replaced by something colder—an irritation that settles deep and heavy in his chest. his jaw tightens. how dare anyone interrupt this. how dare they intrude on a moment that finally feels contained.

he exhales through his nose and stands.

“one second,”

when he opens the door, there’s a guy standing there—someone from the party, flushed and curious, holding a red cup like an excuse. “oh,” the guy says, blinking. “caleb?”

“what,” caleb replies, already halfway to a glare.

the guy hesitates. glances past him, tries—and fails—to see into the room. “uh, nothing. never mind.” he shrugs, backs away with a sheepish laugh, and disappears down the hall.

caleb doesn’t watch him go. he shuts the door immediately and turns the lock with a firm, deliberate twist. the sound of it clicking into place settles something in him.

only then does he turn back around.

you’re still on the bed, exactly where he left you. sometime in the last minute, you must’ve shifted—your dress has ridden up slightly, fabric caught higher on your thighs than before.

it’s nothing.

caleb inhales through his mouth, slow and careful, like he’s bracing against a wave.

his gaze fixes for a second too long before he forces it away, muscles in his arms flexing as he resists the instinct to reach, to adjust, to touch.

not like this.

he swallows, grounding himself with the simple facts: you’re drunk. you trusted him. you’re asleep because you feel safe, and that matters more than anything else.

still, his restraint creaks under the weight of how close he is, how easy it would be to blur lines he’s spent so long perfecting. “get it together,” his eyes return to your face instead, but the yearning doesn’t leave. it never does.

sighing, he runs a hand through his messy hair, his eyes refocusing on your sleeping form once more. you really do look cute like that…

at that moment, you shift in your sleep—the covers around you sliding down your torso as you flip to your other side. immediately, caleb's gaze focuses in on your squished-together cleavage, and his cheeks redden. how could you wear such a dress like that? shouldn't you be weary in a party?

his eyes begin to rake over your soft skin—settling on the curve of your neck, as he imagines how pretty you’d look covered in his hickies. a dull ache settles in his gut, and while he knows he should stop, he continues to let his mind wander.

he imagines your breasts in his hands, and the quiet little sounds you’d make as he touched you—unable to help yourself. he’s sure your skin is very soft, and he wants to caress every inch of it, until he knows of each mole, scar, or otherwise.

shit, he thinks to himself, hand moving down to palm at his crotch. he’s hard thanks to his roaming imagination, but as much as he wants to touch you, that would be really wrong... right?

caleb swallows harshly, and despite himself, his hand reaches down to grab the edge of your covers. slowly, he peels them down your sleeping form—not too surprised that you don’t awake. one of your friends had joked about your sleeping habits—one being that once you got to sleep, it was very hard to wake you during the first few hours.

he hates that he gets aroused at the idea of touching you while you’re unaware. but…it would be so easy. so easy to just slip your tank top down your shoulders…listening to you quietly moan while he sucks on your tits—his fingers finding their way beneath your shorts…

before he can think twice, he finds himself lowering onto the bed beside you. gently, he grips your shoulder and rolls you onto your back, releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding when you don’t stir.

surely, he'd be going to hell for this...

reaching out, he cups your breast though your shirt—the flesh squishing beneath his fingertips. he feels your nipple harden—pressing up against the flat of his palm—and a quiet chuckle sneaks past his lips. even in your sleep, your body can’t deny its desires, huh?

gaining a little courage, caleb slips the straps of your dress off of your shoulders—additional inches of skin becoming exposed to his hungry eyes. and despite wanting to rip it off of you—he works slowly—peeling the fabric down inch by inch until finally, your breasts are fully accessible.

abruptly, he leans over—flattening his tongue against one of your nipples and giving an experimental lick. at the sensation, your breathing hitches slightly, but you don’t awaken. it makes him grin, hand reaching out to claim the other mound as his mouth continues working at the present one.

despite being asleep, it’s clear that your body has sensed a change. quiet whines begin to build in your throat—eyebrows furrowing on your forehead. however, the sounds only urge caleb to proceed.

his tongue continues swirling around your taut nipple—teeth gently nipping at the bud on occasion, and the whines that leave you in response has his cock straining against his underwear. without ceasing, his eyes drag down your torso, pausing at the crotch of your shorts. he can see your thighs clenching ever so slightly.

“pipsqueak....” he mumbles to himself, his hot breath fanning against you. “do you want something to happen between us? that the reason why you're wearing this dress?”

caleb sucks your tit into his mouth a bit more harder, and you mewl beneath him. you stir slightly, your limbs stretching against the sheets, but caleb is too distracted to care. if you wake up, then you wake up. however, until then, he has no intention of stopping.

his chest fills with a warmth so complete it almost hurts. this—this—is how it was always supposed to be.

then—

the fantasy fractures.

caleb blinks, sharply, like waking from a dream.

he’s still there, standing near the door.

the bed is still between you, and the light hasn’t changed, and the door is still locked. you’re still asleep, unaware of him in every way that matters. his hands are empty, hanging stiffly at his sides.

nothing happened.

the absence is... jarring. his mouth feels wrong, like it’s remembering pressure that was never there. his heart pounds too fast, as if it’s been fooled into thinking something has already been claimed.

he exhales, dragging a hand down his face. “jesus,”

he straightens, forcing his weight back onto his heels, reestablishing distance like it’s a rule he has to keep reminding himself of. “you’re unbelievable,”

the thought that he could be cruel—that cruel—settles heavy in his chest. not because he fears crossing the line, but because he knows how badly he wants to pretend it’s already gone.

it settles low and insistent, a pressure that makes his stomach knot and his breath go shallow. caleb stays where he is for a moment too long, staring at the line of your body beneath borrowed sheets, at the quiet trust written into the way you sleep.

he turns away abruptly, like the sight of you has burned him. his steps are quiet as he crosses the room, the bathroom door is right there, just across the bed. close enough to feel like an escape route he’s been pretending not to see.

and in there he goes to work on himself.

one hand braces against the porcelain, tendons standing out stark beneath his skin. the other reaches down, his long fingers wrapping around the thick, throbbing length of his cock. he could feel every vein, every ridge, every sensitive nerve ending crying out for stimulation. and slowly, torturously, he began to stroke himself, his fingers gliding up and down his aching flesh with a sensual rhythm.

he leans forward slightly, forehead almost touching the mirror, shoulders rising and falling. "ah, fuck,"

the chain around his neck swings faintly. and without thinking, he lifts it and bites down on the dog tag, metal cold against his teeth. the familiar weight gives him something to clench around, something to muffle the sounds that threatens to break loose from his chest.

caleb's breath began to come faster, his chest heaving with the exertion of his strokes as he tried to lose himself in the fantasy, in the imagined scenario of you unwittingly inspiring his lust. his grip tightened, fist pumping faster along his thick shaft.

"fuck, fuck, fuck," he chanted dazedly, his hips starting to rock into his touch. wonder what you'd do if you knew it was you he was thinking about, you he was imagining as he touched himself like this? would you be shocked? aroused? disgusted?

he swallowed back the groan that threatened to spill from his lips, biting down hard on the metal of his dog tag instead.

his strokes grew even more urgent, more desperate, his fist a blur as it flew over his cock. "nmnnghh...!" he could feel the pressure building, the need coiling tighter and tighter in his core.

"i'm.. so...close," his eyes squeezed shut, his other hand gripping hard around the sink's edge until the pleasure bordered on pain, and finally, finally, he came with a silent, shuddering groan that wracked his frame.

thick ropes of cum erupted from his cock, splattering across his hand and dripping down onto the floor. his body jerked and spasmed, his hips bucking wildly as he rode out the waves of his intense release. and still, he bit back the sounds of his rapture, his face contorted in a silent scream of ecstasy.

he rests his back against the cool tile, letting the wall take his weight.

his head tips back just enough to expose his throat, breath shuddering as he tries—again—to find its rhythm. in through the nose. out through parted lips. slow it down. contain it.

his jaw loosens, and the dog tag slips free from between his teeth and falls back against his chest.

caleb closes his eyes.

for a moment, all he can feel is the aftermath—his hand slides up to press flat against the door beside him, steadying himself as if the room might tilt.

if he's this lost in just masturbating to the thought of you, what more if he finally gets to be inside you?

god.

it unsettles him how easy it is, how effortlessly you undo him without ever touching him, without even knowing.

just the thought of you reduces him to this quiet wreck trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person. he lets out a soft, humorless laugh under his breath.

“you have no idea,”

he opens his eyes and stares at nothing, replaying you with surgical clarity: the curve of your mouth when you smile without thinking. the way your voice stays even, never bending toward him the way his bends toward you every time.

the simple fact of your presence, enough to tip him off balance...

~

you wake up with your head split clean down the middle, light pressing too hard against your eyes, your mouth feels really dry and sour with regret. the room is unfamiliar—stripped of the party’s noise like it never existed. the bed beneath you isn’t yours, either.

your phone is on the nightstand, charged, and your shoes are lined up by the door.

someone sure took care of you.

the memory comes back in pieces.

caleb...

you sit up slowly, head throbbing, and scan the room. he isn’t here. no messages or anything like that - just the quiet evidence of his presence, already cleaned away. you don’t feel panicked. you don’t feel grateful either. mostly, you feel mildly inconvenienced by the gap in your memory.

monday morning arrives then.

by the time you make it to campus, the social hall hums with weekday life—voices layered over each other, chairs scraping, the smell of coffee and crowd. you sit with your friends at one of the long tables, hands wrapped around a paper cup, listening as they dissect friday night like it’s a shared dream.

“i don’t remember half of it,” someone laughs.

“you disappeared,” another points out, looking at you. “we thought you left.”

“maybe i did,” you say, rubbing your temple. across you, a table away, someone is asleep.

hood pulled low, arms crossed on the table, head turned away just enough that you can’t make out his face. his posture is unbothered, like he belongs anywhere he decides to stay. something about the shape of him tugs at your attention—familiar, but not urgent enough to investigate.

your friend keeps talking.

“hey,” she says suddenly, lowering her voice. “have you seen jaden lately?”

you blink. “no, i haven't,”

“he hasn’t been around,” another adds. “like—at all. hasn’t replied to anyone. it’s been, what, almost three weeks?”

three weeks?

you frown faintly, thinking. jaden’s name slides through your head and bumps into the memory of rain soaking through your clothes as you’d laughed under a borrowed umbrella, him walking you home, and the wet pavements.

that was the last time, wasn’t it?

“maybe he’s busy,” you say, because it’s the easiest explanation. “or sick.”

someone shrugs. the conversation drifts on, attention pulled elsewhere, already bored of absence.

you take another sip of coffee and glance, without really meaning to, at the sleeping figure across your table.

the hoodie shifts slightly, and his hand moves, just enough to suggest awareness.

you look away.

“maybe we should check on jaden,” you say, stirring your drink absently. “like… go to his apartment later or something. just to make sure he’s alive.”

a few people nod. someone says, “yeah, do that. i'm starting to get worried of him.”

then someone laughs, sharp and sudden. “oh my god, wait—speaking of friday.”

you hum in response, distracted.

“the crush thing,” she continues. “by the pool.”

“you remember that?” another voice chimes in, grinning at you. “when we asked who your crush was?”

you pause.

“you totally looked at someone, like very obviously.”

“yeah,” someone else adds. “you looked right at—”

you cut in. “it wasn’t obvious.” your tone is flat, mildly corrective.

“come on,” they insist. “who was it?”

there’s a stretch of silence that feels longer than it is.

“i don’t really talk about that stuff,” you say.

they groan and continue to push.

“okay, but hypothetically.”

“just say it.”

“we already know.”

you sigh. and finally, you give them what they want. “what about it if i like caleb?”

the words land without flourish. there's no smile, no nervous laugh. your voice stays even, almost bored with the confession. you continue, as if clarifying a logistical detail. “he’s my type.”

that’s it.

“oh my god,” someone laughs, leaning closer. “you know what people say about caleb, right?”

you hum noncommittally, already half-detached as the teasing starts to pile up. “apparently he lives at the gym.”

“yeah, have you seen his back?”

“you should check his socials,” another adds, grinning. “it’s honestly unfair.”

you roll your eyes, slow and deliberate. “i’m not doing homework on a guy,” you mildly scoff. “if i wanted to look, i would.”

that earns a chorus of groans and mock disappointment. someone nudges your shoulder, someone else mutters that you’re impossible. you let it wash over you, because rumors don’t interest you and bodies don’t impress you enough to warrant effort. caleb remains, in your mind, exactly what he’s always been.

the bell rings.

chairs scrape back, conversations fracture mid-sentence, and people scatter toward their respective buildings. you stand, sling your bag over your shoulder, and follow the flow without looking back.

you don’t see the way the figure at the other table stirs the moment your footsteps fade. the slow lift of his head. the way his body uncoils like he’s been awake far longer than anyone suspects.

caleb slides the hoodie back from his hair.

his face is faintly flushed, color blooming high along his cheekbones. his eyes—a little too wide—track the empty space you left behind. a hand comes up, absentminded, to rake through his hair, leaving it artfully disheveled in a way that looks unintentional and isn’t.

for a second, he just sits there. then he exhales, something breathless and disbelieving, mouth curving into a smile that’s soft and stunned all at once.

you like him.

caleb slowly stands, shoulders rolling back as he slips fully into himself again. by the time he moves to join the current of students, he’s wide awake now.

~

after class, the sky has settled into that dull, undecided gray that makes everything feel suspended.

jaden’s building is older than the rest nearby—three floors, narrow stairwell, paint chipped thin from years of use. you climb to the third floor with a growing sense of unease, phone already in your hand.

you stop in front of his door to knock.

nothing.

you dial his number as you wait, pressing the phone to your ear, listening to it ring unanswered. you knock again, louder this time. still nothing.

minutes bleed together. ten. twenty. almost thirty.

you’re just starting to consider calling someone—anyone—when you hear footsteps behind you.

“hey,” a voice says, familiar enough to make you turn immediately. “you.”

you look over your shoulder.

and it’s... caleb?

he’s dressed down—black compression shirt clinging cleanly to his torso, sleeves hugging muscle without effort. a black cap shadows his eyes, brim low and casual. he’s carrying two grocery bags, one in each hand.

he pauses when he sees you, eyebrows lifting just a little.

“what are you doing here?” you ask, the concern in your voice overriding any social preamble.

he tilts his head, then nods toward the door you’ve been knocking on. “i was gonna ask you the same thing.”

you glance back at jaden’s door, then at caleb. “i’m checking on a friend. he hasn’t answered anyone in weeks.”

caleb follows your gaze, his expression shifts into a thoughtful one. “oh, well, i live here.”

you blink. “here?”

he gestures vaguely down the hall, then back toward the door beside you. “yeah, third floor.”

the words settle slowly.

“…wait, you and jaden—”

“are neighbors,” caleb finishes easily.

the hallway feels smaller all of a sudden, quieter, like the air has been rearranged around the information.

you didn’t know that.

you didn’t know a lot of things, apparently.

caleb shifts the grocery bags in his hands, plastic rustling softly. “he’s not answering?”

“no... i’ve been here for a while.”

he hums, considering, eyes flicking once more to the door. “that’s weird,” he says calmly. and somehow, the way he says it makes you feel like it isn’t.

he glances at your phone, then at the door again, as if checking the same conclusion you already reached. “have you eaten?” he asks, casual, like it just occurred to him.

you shake your head. “not really.”

there’s a brief pause—barely there—before he nods once. “then while we wait,” he says, shifting the grocery bags in his hands, “you can come to my place, was about to make dinner anyway.”

you hesitate.

it’s instinctive, the kind of pause you don’t consciously justify. this wasn’t part of the plan. you were supposed to knock, worry, maybe leave a message taped to a door. not follow someone into their apartment.

caleb doesn’t rush you. he just waits, patient, like he already knows how this will go.

“…okay,”

his place is a few doors away.

inside, the apartment closes around you with a quiet thud. the interior is stark in a way that feels intentional: concrete tones, sharp lines, furniture chosen for function rather than comfort. it’s quite clean, but not welcoming.

gloomy, you think, without quite meaning it as a criticism.

caleb sets the grocery bags down on the counter and reaches up to pull off his cap. he ruffles his hair once, resetting himself now that you’re here. then he looks at you.

“i’ll cook steak, how's that?”

you blink, processing, then nod. “sure.”

you move toward the kitchen island and take a seat on one of the tall chairs, legs dangling slightly as you settle in. the surface is cool beneath your palms. from here, you can see everything—his movements, the quiet efficiency with which he unpacks the groceries.

he moves like this is normal.

like this is planned.

he knows you’re watching.

not because you’re obvious about it—you aren’t—but because caleb has always been painfully attuned to the way your attention moves.

his back faces you as he cooks. the pan hisses softly, oil blooming into heat. he rolls his shoulders once, sleeves of the compression shirt hugging muscle like it was designed to be admired. he doesn’t turn around. he lets you look.

then you stop.

you reach for your phone instead. caleb catches the faint shift in your posture in the reflection of the blackened microwave door.

he's a bit sad you've stopped looking at him. nonetheless, he salts the steak with care, flips it, listens.

your friend’s voice echoes in your head—check his social media—and you do.

caleb doesn’t post. you already knew that. there's no grid, no carefully curated persona. just a profile picture and silence.

except—there's a story posted an hour ago.

your thumb taps before you can reconsider.

it’s a mirror shot with gym lighting, and his back to the glass, shirt pulled just enough to expose the clean, brutal lines of muscle and spine, skin sheened with sweat. the kind of photo that isn’t trying to be sexy—and is, because of it.

you feel heat rush up your neck.

caleb smiles to himself.

he turns then, quiet as a thought, and you don’t hear him approach. you’re still staring at your phone when his shadow falls over you, close enough that you can smell him.

“you were really drunk last friday,” he says mildly.

you jolt.

“i—” you lock your phone, flustered and mortified. “i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to—”

your words tangle, and caleb watches them fall apart with fond patience. “did i…,” you hesitate, cheeks warm now for a different reason. “did i say anything weird? or did anything inappropriate?”

that gets him.

he stills. the pan sizzles behind him, forgotten for half a beat too long. his gaze drops to your face—almost tender in how carefully he studies your worry.

inappropriate.

the word is almost funny.

he thinks of your weight against him, your breath, the way you trusted him without ever saying so.

caleb pauses just long enough to make the silence mean something. then he smiles. slowly.

he reaches out before you can interpret it, taps your cheek twice with his palm, light as a promise. “what if,” he murmurs, “i’m the one who did something inappropriate?”

he straightens before you can respond, turns back to the stove like he hasn’t just tipped the room off its axis.

but his ears are burning.

you stay quiet.

he exhales first. “i’m kidding, you didn’t do anything inappropriate. nothing happened.” he doesn’t look at you when he says it. he turns back to the stove, gives the steak one last glance, lets the heat kiss it just right. control, caleb reminds himself.

restraint looks good on him. it always has.

when he plates the food, he does it neatly, he sets it down in front of you with a soft clink, the meat resting perfectly with juices glistening. he watches your eyes widen despite yourself.

you dig in almost immediately, hunger winning over caution. caleb leans against the counter, digging in as well, arms folding loosely as he watches you eat like it matters. like you trust what he’s given you.

“this is really good,” you say around a bite, unguarded.

his smile comes easy at that. “thank you, sweetheart.”

then you pause.

he notices before you do.

your gaze flicks to his mouth, brows knitting just slightly. caleb tilts his head curiously—and that’s when you reach out.

your finger brushes his lip. just once, absent-minded, intimate in a way that isn’t trying to be. “you’ve got something,”

caleb stills.

his heart slams so hard it almost hurts.

for half a second, the world narrows to the press of your fingertip, the faint heat of you, the obscene tenderness of the gesture. he doesn’t move. doesn’t breathe. doesn’t dare.

then he laughs—under his breath—as if that might save him. “careful,” he says, eyes dropping to his plate. “you act like that with guys, you’re gonna get yourself a boyfriend real fast.”

you scoff immediately. “no i won’t.”

caleb hums, amused, and then—without thinking, without filtering the thought as he usually does—he adds, “you didn’t seem to mind when you were with jaden. laughing and leaning into him under that umbrella.”

you blink.

“how did you—?”

caleb blinks back.

shit.

the realization hits him a fraction too late, sharp and sudden. he straightens just a bit. he hadn’t meant to say it like that. he hadn’t meant to say it at all.

he laughs again, a little louder this time. “people talk, you know how it is.” he watches you closely as he says it, watches to see if you believe him. “jaden’s a good guy, from what i hear.”

you take another bite of steak, slower now. “you sure hear a lot.”

he smiles at that, “only what’s worth hearing.”

there it is—that faint edge beneath the joke. it pricks at you, subtle but present. you glance up at him, the way his eyes stay on you a second too long before flicking away.

“he hasn’t been answering anyone,” you say. “it’s weird.”

“mm.” caleb hums, “he’s like that sometimes, right? just disappears.”

“not like this.” you pause, watching his reaction. “it’s been weeks.”

caleb tilts his head considering. “people change though.”

the way he says it makes your fingers curl faintly against the plate. you let out a breathy laugh, half-joking. “you sound like you don’t like him.”

he chuckles, “i don’t dislike him. i just don’t think he’s very… reliable.”

“and you know that how?”

caleb finally meets your gaze head-on. there’s warmth there—always—but it’s concentrated now, focused in a way that makes your stomach tighten. “i pay attention,”

you should brush it off. you almost do. instead, you find yourself leaning back in the chair. “you notice a lot about me too,”

“you’re not hard to notice.”

that should be flattering.

and yet, you swallow. “you knew what burger i liked, you knew i hadn’t eaten today, you knew about jaden and the umbrella.”

caleb lets out a quiet laugh, like you’ve amused him. “are those crimes now?”

“no…just interesting.”

for the first time since you sat down, caleb moves closer. “you don’t mind, do you?” he asks, “me paying attention?”

“i don’t know,”

his eyes soften at that, something almost tender flickering through them. but beneath it—you catch something else. possession, maybe. or anticipation. “that’s okay, you don’t have to know yet.”

you look away first, heart doing something uncomfortable in your chest. part of you wants to push. to ask how he knows so much. why it feels like he’s always one step ahead of your questions.

you finish the last bite slower than the rest, more aware now of the quiet between movements. caleb notices, but he doesn’t comment. he simply reaches for your plate when you’re done.

“i’ll wash these later,” he says, setting both plates in the sink. he turns back to you, leaning his hip lightly against the counter, and his gaze lingers on you in a way that feels… assessing. “do you still want to stay? i was going to take a half bath.”

you shake your head. “i should get going.”

“then i’ll walk you out,” he says, “after i rinse off.”

“you don’t have to—”

“it’s fine.” his tone is warm, agreeable. non-negotiable in a way that doesn’t raise its voice. “just a few minutes.”

you hesitate, then nod. “alright...”

that’s all it takes. he turns away from you and heads toward the bathroom, rolling his shoulders as he goes, already loosening the tension from his body. you watch him disappear past the doorway—the broad line of his back, the confident ease of his steps—until the door clicks shut behind him.

you tell yourself you’re only looking because waiting feels awkward, because standing still makes you too aware of the running water down the hall, of the fact that caleb is alone behind a locked door, rinsing heat and effort from his skin while you remain in his space.

you step off the chair quietly.

from caleb’s perspective—though he’s not here to see it—you move the way you always do when you’re thinking, eyes tracing rather than darting, and the apartment opens up to you in fragments.

a book on the side table. not just any book—one you mentioned once, offhandedly, weeks ago. you never said you owned it. only that you liked the ending. there it is anyway, dog-eared at the same chapter you’d quoted.

a spare mug in the cabinet, chipped in a familiar place. the same brand you keep at home.

even the way the furniture is arranged feels tailored to someone who dislikes clutter, who hates feeling boxed in.

to you.

your curiosity sharpens into something colder.

so you move farther in. the sound of the shower continues steadily, a soft rush through the wall, distant but present. caleb is taking his time. he always does when he thinks he has it.

you stop short at the center table.

there’s a necklace there. a small, familiar pendant that you’ve seen disappear beneath shirts more times than you can count.

jaden’s.

your breath catches, like your body forgot how to finish the inhale. your fingers hover above it, then pull back as if the metal might burn you.

why is this here?

your mind scrambles for explanations that don’t quite land. borrowing? coincidence? something you’re missing? but the weight in your chest doesn’t lift. it sinks deeper, spreading nauseatingly.

behind you, the hallway seems longer now. caleb’s bedroom door is closed. and it shouldn’t matter. it’s none of your business. you’ve already crossed some invisible line just by being here, by looking.

and yet, the shower keeps running.

you swallow. it's just a peek, you think.

you move down the hallway like you’re trespassing inside a thought that isn’t yours.

every step is quiet, your attention split between the closed bedroom door ahead of you and the bathroom behind—where the shower still runs. the sound should reassure you. instead, it presses against your nerves, reminding you that caleb is here.

the air feels cooler in the corridor, much denser. you stop in front of his bedroom door. your heart thuds loud enough that you’re certain it must be audible, a traitorous rhythm in your ears as you lift your hand. your fingers hover, trembling just slightly, before curling around the doorknob.

just a peek, you tell yourself again. just enough to quiet the unease.

you don’t get the chance to.

before you can turn, a large hand comes down against the doorframe beside your head, close enough that you feel the vibration of it more than you hear it.

you gasp and spin, losing your balance for half a second before instinct catches up.

caleb is there, just stepped out of the bathroom, shirtless, skin still damp, droplets tracing slow paths down his chest and disappearing beneath the waistband of loose black pants. his hair is darkened from the water, and a small towel hangs around his neck to catch its dampness.

from caleb’s perspective, the sight of you like this—caught mid-reach and eyes wide—is almost unbearable. not because it’s shocking, because it’s intimate. because it feels like he’s walked in on a truth you were trying not to admit to yourself.

he smiles, like this is exactly where he expected to find you.

“what’re you doing?” he asks gently.

his voice is calm. too calm. it contrasts painfully with the way your pulse spikes, the way heat floods your face. you open your mouth to answer, but the words don’t cooperate. they tangle, stall, dissolve before they can become excuses.

“i— i was just—” you stop, frustrated, swallowing hard.

caleb doesn’t interrupt, nor does he move his hand. he leans slightly closer instead, not enough to touch you, but enough that you’re acutely aware of the warmth radiating from him. his eyes stay on your face, patient, intent, and unblinking.

take your time, he thinks.

finally, you straighten, forcing yourself to breathe evenly, to meet his gaze head-on. “…you’re unsettling me, caleb.”

for a split second, something flickers behind his eyes—surprise, maybe. then something warmer, almost pleased.

“unsettling?” he repeats softly, like the word interests him. he tilts his head, studying you with an intensity that makes your skin feel too tight. “i didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable, but you wandered pretty far in.”

you don’t step back.

that, more than anything, is what caleb notices first.

your pulse is loud—he can see it, jumping at your throat—but your spine stays straight. your expression settles into something almost flat, as if fear has to pass through several filters before it’s allowed to show. it intrigues him.

you draw in a breath. “you...watch me too much,” caleb doesn’t interrupt, he lets you go on. “you know things you shouldn’t, like- like my habits, my preferences. and jaden. i don’t tell you everything, so explain how you know.”

all caleb could think about is how beautiful you are right now.

the way you confront him without dramatics, the way you don’t ask why, only how. the way you keep your distance emotionally even now, even cornered in a hallway with his arm blocking the door.

he catches every word and every place where you could have softened and chose not to.

“i pay attention,” he says again, but this time it’s quieter, more honest than it should be.

"really? crossing the line is... paying attention?"

"no line has ever mattered to me when it comes to you."

you scoff, faint and humorless. “that’s not an answer.”

he smiles wider, the kind of smile people trust. “it is, just not the one you’re expecting.” he shifts his weight, finally lowering his arm from the doorframe—he wants you to feel like you’ve regained ground. “you’re observant too, you just don’t like what this one implies.”

you search his face, clearly trying to decide whether he’s deflecting or confessing. he lets you. he’s good at this—knows exactly how much to give. “i don’t mean to make you uneasy,” he says softly. “but when you care about someone, you remember things. that doesn’t make it sinister.”

care?

he watches how the word lands. how you don’t react the way most people would. just a narrowing of your eyes, analytical.

“you’re twisting it,” you say. “i didn’t say you cared.”

“you didn’t have to.” he tilts his head, “if you want me to stop doing something, tell me what it is. don’t guess at my intentions. you’ll only scare yourself.”

it’s subtle, he reframes your fear as imagination, your instincts as overthinking. and it makes you hesitate just for a second.

you’re scared, yes—but you’re also curious. and that curiosity is the crack he’s been waiting for. “i don’t like feeling like i don’t know where i stand,”

caleb nods, as if that’s the most reasonable thing in the world. “then stay right here, i won’t move you.”

you don’t realize it yet—but the moment you chose to confront him instead of leaving, he’d already won something. and caleb, patient as ever, is more than happy to let you believe this was your move.

you stand there, barely breathing, and caleb notices every subtle shift in your posture. he takes it all in, cataloging it quietly, a predator and a poet at once.

“i think it’s time,” he murmurs, almost a caress. “time you understood… everything.”

you don’t respond. you can’t. your chest has tightened so suddenly that every breath feels precious.

he leans slightly, just enough for the shadow of him to fall across your face. “everything about me. everything i've needed. everything i've… wanted.”

his words aren’t rushed. they’re seductive in the quietest, deadliest way—and you’re just speechless, caught in the pull of his gaze.

“you don’t know how you’re supposed to feel, do you?” he says, a small smirk playing at the corner of his lips. his thumb brushes lightly against your jaw, ghosting a line that makes your pulse jump. “don’t worry...most people don’t.”

there’s a pause, just long enough for your own heartbeat to fill your ears.

maybe the problem isn't me, caleb thinks. maybe... it's you.

“do you want to hear a secret?” he asks, voice dropping lower.

you just stare at him, flabbergasted, breath hitching.

“good,” he murmurs, interpreting your silence as consent. “i’ll take that as a yes.”

before your brain can even catch up, he moves. his hand cups your chin with an ease that leaves you no choice but to tilt your head up, and the other braces against the door behind you.

"mm-!" his lips press against yours, the heat from his chest pressing fully into yours, and your knees threaten to buckle.

he doesn’t pull away, not when you’re beautifully breathless, not when your hands twitch, uncertain where to place them. he leans in just enough that every inch of him presses into your senses.

“you’re mine,” he whispers against your lips, and it’s not a threat. it’s a promise, and you can’t think, can’t respond, can’t even fully comprehend how tight your body has gone under the weight of it.

from his perspective, every second is perfection: your hesitation, your surprise, the flush rising on your cheeks, the way you’re pinned yet unresisting. he leans in just a fraction more, teeth grazing the soft curve of your lower lip as he deepens the kiss, and he doesn’t plan on ever letting go.

he whispers again, “i’ve wanted you for so long,” and it vibrates against your skin, against the fragile line of your lips, as if every word is carefully designed to consume you.

you close your eyes, heart hammering in your chest, caught between disbelief and the strange, undeniable comfort of being consumed by him.

“you feel…” he murmurs against your lips, a vibration you feel more than hear, “so good. so... goddamn.. good.”

his teeth graze your lower lip just enough to make you shiver. he moves down your jawline, tracing it with the same precise attention he uses when memorizing the curves of your body, mapping each line with reverent obsession.

your pulse spikes, your skin feels too hot, too alive. and his hand slides gently around your waist, pulling you closer, anchoring you against him. the other rises slowly, threading into your hair at the nape of your neck, tilting your head so the column of your throat is exposed. he inhales it, lips grazing, tasting, a feather-light press that leaves you breathless.

he whispers again, “you’re mine… mine to notice, mine to keep…”

caleb's damp hair clings to his forehead, strands falling slightly over his eyes. the faint sheen on his skin catches the light from the hallway, highlighting the taut planes of muscle beneath the skin—his shoulders, chest, arms.

he moves down to your collarbone, lips brushing, teasing, savoring. every exhale against your skin is a confession, a claim, a promise. his hands explore just enough to make you aware of his strength, his control, without ever forcing or frightening you.

he mumbles against your throat, words melting into the skin: “every piece of you… every thought… i’ve wanted it all. and now i can have just this.”

and for some reason, against all reason, it feels right. you lean into him, surrendering, letting him hold you, map you—not cruelly, but with the slow, dainty precision of someone who has memorized every part of you, who savors each moment as if you were his favorite candy.

caleb smiles against your skin, confident. devastatingly sexy.

you pull away suddenly, hands pressing against his chest with more force than you meant to use.

caleb lets himself be pushed back.

that, more than anything, steals the breath from your lungs.

his body yields easily, a half-step back, palms open at his sides like he’s showing you he never intended to trap you. the space between you snaps open, cold and dizzying.

you turn your face away and breathe. once. twice. again. your heart is loud, disobedient. “it’s—” you start, then stop, swallowing. “it’s too fast.”

caleb watches you like he’s watching weather roll in—you keep going because stopping feels worse. “i’ve never… kissed anyone like that. i don’t know how far this is supposed to go.”

when you finally look back at him, you realize he hasn’t interrupted once. he’s just staring at you.

then he leans in slightly and murmurs, almost to himself, “you look...beautiful even when you’re overwhelmed.”

“…what?”

was he even listening?

heat rushes up your neck, straight to your face, traitorous and immediate. your reaction betrays you before you can mask it, and caleb sees it—his lips curve faintly then.

“i was listening, i just didn’t want to stop looking at you.” his hand lifts slowly, deliberately, like he’s giving you time to pull away again if you want to. you don’t.

the back of his fingers brush your cheek, feather-light, barely there. then your shoulder. then the curve of your hip, just tracing, like he’s reminding himself you’re real.

your breath catches.

and caleb takes your hand next, guiding it gently, reverently, as if it’s something fragile. he brings it to his mouth and presses a kiss into your knuckles, there's a soundless whimper of devotion more than desire.

he lifts his gaze to yours, eyes undone in a way that feels far more dangerous than confidence. “do you know how badly you’ve imprinted yourself on me?” he whispers.

caleb eases back just enough for you to breathe. it costs him more than you could ever see. “we can stop, if you want to.”

his body betrays him anyway.

from where you stand, you can see it—the way his fingers curl slightly, as if resisting the urge to pull you back in. the way he's fixed on you with an intensity that borders on hunger. he’s still close enough that you feel his warmth, still angled toward you like gravity hasn’t released its hold.

he means what he says, but he also doesn’t want it to be true. inside caleb’s head, he begs silently.

don't stop. please don’t stop.

his thoughts crowd in, sharp and feverish, all orbiting you. the way your breath hitched when you pulled away, the way your hand felt in his, the way your mouth softened under his. he wants—no, needs—to continue, to show you how carefully he could unravel you, how deeply he already has.

say yes, his mind pleads. let me keep going. let me prove it.

his chest aches with the force of it, with the restraint he’s forcing on himself. he has done terrible things with calm hands and a clear head. he has crossed lines without flinching, cleaned up messes the world never noticed.

for you.

he doesn’t think the words out loud. he never would. but the truth sits heavy and warm in his chest: he has already chosen you over everyone else. irrevocably.

outwardly, he softens his grip, though he doesn’t fully let go. his thumb strokes once, unconsciously, over your wrist—an echo of possession he hasn’t earned yet.

“i don’t want to scare you,” caleb says, voice roughened by restraint. “i just… want you to choose.”

his eyes search your face, desperate in a way that’s barely contained, like a fault line just under the surface. he’s smiling, but it’s fragile.

choose me, he thinks. choose this. choose now.

you don’t answer him—not yes, not no—and the silence stretches. he exhales softly, a slow sigh that curves into a smile, as if he’s already forgiven you for hesitating.

“it’s okay,” he murmurs, “you don’t have to rush.”

his hand lifts again, unhurried, and this time you don’t pull away. from his perspective, this feels like standing at the edge of something sacred.

his finger traces a careful path down the center of your chest—a line of awareness following his touch. he watches your breathing change, then lower, to your stomach, then down to your lower abdomen where he presses lightly, testing, grounding you in the moment.

“does that feel good?” he asks.

you don’t answer, your silence thrills him more than words ever could.

his finger drifts a little further, right where your clit is. the pressure is firmer now, deliberate but still restrained, as if he’s asking permission without actually asking. he repeats the question, “does it?”

your throat works, you hesitate, then you nod.

caleb’s breath catches. it’s sharp, involuntary, the kind of reaction he can’t fully hide. his smile deepens into satisfaction, eyes flicking up to your face like he’s just been handed proof of something he already knew.

“good,” he murmurs, approval threaded through the word. "i'll... just do this," he sneaks his hand under your shorts, feeling the dampness of your panty on his digits. this makes you squirm, the back of your hand covering your face. "i'll put it in, okay?" caleb's just about to shove a finger in, when you grab his wrist almost frantically.

"wait–"

"hmm?" caleb stops short, eyes flicking up to you. "what's wrong, dear?"

"i... isn't that painful?"

his look of curiosity then turns into one of delight, how cute you are. "have you not tried putting your own finger in?"

"wh- why would you ask me that?"

"so i know how many fingers i can put in," caleb drags his voice in a seductive manner, eyes intentionally looking you down. "and how fast i can go," he continues pressing on your clit with little nudges. "and... how deep i should be."

you've lost count of how many times caleb have had your mouth ajar, utterly perplexed at this man's range of quality. there you are again, staring at him with furrowed brows, and despite yourself, you can feel your pussy clenching around nothing at his words.

"let's make a deal, pip," caleb places an open-mouthed kiss on your jawline, and instinctively, you tilt your head and shut your eyes. "every time you don't speak, i'll do whatever i want with you, 'kay?"

"aah!" that's what you let out the second caleb slides a long finger in, your hands flying to his shoulders for something to grip onto.

he catches your mouth, sealing your noises with a feverish lapping while his fingers linger at your slick heat, skimming just enough to make you ache, barely breaching you before retreating again.

when instinct makes you try to escape from his hand, his grip tightens, stopping you cold—and the small sound you make is answered only by his cruel restraint. he pulls his fingers back, not to leave you alone, but to continue tormenting your bud, circling, brushing, deliberately avoiding both your clit and the relief of letting himself sink inside.

without any warning, caleb pulls away and buries his face into your neck, his teeth sink into your skin as two of his fingers slide into you in one smooth motion. a shaky sound slips from your throat, the sharp sting blurring into heat, and when you instinctively try to move away from his hand, he bites you again—an unspoken command to stay still.

you part your lips to tell him to slow down, but he steals the moment from you—his mouth claiming yours as his fingers drive into you with sudden intent. his tongue presses past your teeth, devouring every broken sound you make, swallowing them whole while his hand moves with an unrelenting rhythm. it’s rough, almost punishing, and he knows it’s exactly what pulls the gasps from your chest—the obscene, wet sounds of his movements filling the room with every sharp roll of his wrist.

“c–caleb,” you choke out, between the kisses, your legs threatening to give beneath you, already spiraling toward release as his fingers strike that sensitive place inside you again and again.

"yeah?" caleb breathes, the veins in his arm almost poking out as he makes an effort to piston into you with just two of his fingers.

you roll your head back against the door, arms now wrapping around his neck. you hate how the heat in your gut is starting to betray you. "f-feels good, caleb..." you cry out, tears starting to form around the corners of your eyes.

caleb stills abruptly, the sound of your voice cutting through him like a blade. he pulls back as if struck by the suddenness of it, breath catching. for a moment, he only stares—then his gaze drops to his own hand, glistening with evidence of just how far he’s pushed you.

a quiet, disbelieving breath leaves him, something between a laugh and a sigh, and that familiar, dangerous smirk curves his mouth.

“look at you....” he brings a finger to your cheek, caressing the texture of your skin ever so softly. "do you realize how being very good i am right now?" he whispers, " "...you should appreciate how hard this is f'me."

hard?...

"aren't you gunna say anything, bunny?"

you purse your lips together, shy and avoidant. you aren't familiar with these feelings, and you aren't sure how to approach them. so all you settle for is silence. just silence.

but, despite yourself, you like that caleb takes it as consent. that he's doing the honor of adjusting the sails. even though you haven't processed the fact that caleb's admitted his obsession toward you long enough for it to sink into your chest.

all you can understand, right now, is not that caleb had implied of doing horrible things just to keep you in his orbit, but the mere sensation of his hands on you, allover you.

and the way his gaze just tells you to let him in, to let yourself feel him.

so you do.

you lunge forward before you can think better of it, fingers fisting into his damp hair, palms cradling his face as you rise on your toes to crash yourself against him.

the world stops. his eyes squint shut on instinct, then flutter open again in disbelief, ghost-blinking like his mind has short-circuited. this wasn’t the script. this wasn’t how it was supposed to go.

you’re kissing him.

you chose him.

oh. god.

he makes a sound low in his throat, something broken and reverent all at once, and that’s all the hesitation he gets. he cannot—will not—let this slip through his fingers. his hands move before his thoughts can catch up, sliding securely under your thighs, lifting you with terrifying ease.

you’re suddenly higher, closer, pressed to him as if you were always meant to fit there. he keeps the kiss intact, unbroken, unhurried now that he has you where he wants you, like this is the only reasonable outcome.

his grip is firm but careful, holding you as if you’re something precious he’s finally been allowed to claim—mouth still on yours with a heart thundering with the knowledge that this time—you came to him.

caleb carries you across the living area as if the distance is nothing. the room blurs at the edges until the sofa catches the back of his knees and he sinks into it with a soft exhale, cushions swallowing him whole.

you end up straddling his hips without quite realizing how, knees pressing into the give of the pillows, hands braced at his shoulders. for a split second, the closeness startles you both—the way your balance shifts, the way his hands hover at your waist, unsure whether to hold or let go.

you don't stop kissing. it’s clumsy in the way first things always are. your mouths don’t quite align at first, teeth bumping faintly. caleb lets out a breath that sounds almost like a laugh, smiling into the kiss, relief and wonder softening the sharpness he usually wears so well. he follows your pace instead of setting it, learning you as he goes, tentative and greedy all at once.

your lips part, meet again. tongues brush—hesitant, exploratory—like you’re both testing how far the other will go. it’s almost intoxicating not because it’s perfect, but because it isn’t. because you’re figuring it out together, right here, tangled up on his sofa like this is the most natural place in the world to be.

unconsciously, you don’t register when the kiss stops being just a kiss.

your body has already begun answering for you—the way your hips rock forward and grind against him isn’t intentional, just a restless seeking born from heat and closeness. you think you’re only trying to stay balanced. you think you’re only following the rhythm he’s set.

caleb notices.

his mouth falters first. the kiss breaks unevenly, breath catching sharp between his teeth. when he kisses you again, there’s a sound this time—low, strained, embarrassingly honest—slipping into your mouth before he can stop it. his brows draw together, the smile gone, replaced by something raw and overstimulated.

then his hand closes around your arm.

he pulls you back just enough to break the contact, and the absence hits harder than the closeness ever did. caleb’s face is flushed now, color climbing high on his cheekbones, his chest rising and falling too fast.

his gaze drops, just for a second, down below—the way his hardening bulge is pressed against your pussy—before snapping back up to your face, wide and almost accusatory, like he’s been wronged by his own body.

“do you even know,” he asks, voice rough and frayed at the edges, “what you’re doing to me?”

you shake your head immediately. no, of course not. panic prickles at your skin, fear that you crossed a line you didn’t even see. your hands loosen on his shoulders, ready to retreat, ready to apologize.

but caleb doesn’t let you move away. instead, he shifts beneath you, giving you a grinding motion upwards. it presses the truth of him into the space between you, heat and tension where there hadn’t been any a moment ago.

your breath stutters, because you realize how rock hard caleb is.

his eyes darken, embarrassed and ruined all at once. “that,” he murmurs, almost helplessly, “that’s what.” then, quieter—like it’s a confession he never meant to give—“you’re making it so much worse.”

and the way he says it makes your face burn, all the way down to your chest, because suddenly you realize this isn’t a mistake to him at all.

"i'm sorry... i thought, maybe... that you would like it—" the words slip out soft and clumsy, tripping over itself the way you suddenly feel. you apologize again, quieter this time, eyes darting away as if you’ve misread everything.

caleb doesn’t answer right away, and he just looks at you.

with that maddening, knowing ease of his—head tipped slightly, mouth curved in a slow, indulgent smile, like he’s watching a child stumble through something inevitable. his eyes don’t leave you, not even when you keep talking, explaining yourself, backtracking.

“oh,” he murmurs, voice low and almost amused. “there you go…”

you falter. "i'm sorry, i don't know how to do this— i..."

“mmhmm,” he nods along as if he’s encouraging you to keep going, like your apologies are something sweet he’s savoring. “yeah, go on...”

it makes heat crawl up your neck. you almost snap at him for teasing—almost tell him to stop looking at you like that, to take you seriously—but before you can gather the words, caleb leans in just enough to steal the space from your lungs.

“do you really think, that a sorry is what i need from you?” his gaze drifts down your chest—your cleavage—lingering a second too long before returning to your face. the implication settles heavy in your chest, in the silence he leaves behind on purpose.

caleb exhales through his nose, smile deepening, and slowly, caleb’s fingers find the hem of your shirt.

he lifts it just enough to break the line between what he knows and what he’s imagined, breath stalling in his chest as if the sight alone has struck something vital.

his eyes narrow with awe, staring at your boobs, the kind that makes his throat work as he swallows hard. "you're so... beautiful."

for a moment, he doesn’t touch you. he just looks. "so beautiful it hurts."

then his hands rise, tentative at first—testing, asking without words—before confidence overtakes restraint. his palms are warm on your mounds, memorizing you as if he’s afraid the knowledge might be taken from him. his breathing turns uneven, and you feel the answer in his body before he ever says a word, the way he presses closer without meaning to.

caleb buries his face against you as he slides your brassiere down to take your nipple in his mouth, murmuring something unintelligible, something wrecked. he clings like a man starving, and all you can do is clutch at him, a sound slipping from your throat before you can stop it.

caleb presses closer, hips moving on instinct rather than intention, chasing a sensation he doesn’t have language for yet.

he rolls his hips upward, eager to bury his clothed erection into your sex, and you feel the way his tongue is simultaneously laving the pain of your nipple. it's desperate, like a man who’s wandered into paradise by accident and is terrified someone will drag him back out.

his arms lock around you, fingers digging in as though you might disappear if he loosens his hold even a little.

he nuzzles closer, face buried against your chest as if he belongs there, and every movement of his body is pleading, clumsy and earnest, like he’s trying to fuse himself to you through sheer will.

suddenly, caleb pulls away and forces you to rise up. "for a while," he says it almost like a moan, you almost smile from how undone he obviously is. but that immediately falters when you see him unbuckling his belt.

"caleb?"

"yeah?"

"are we... going to have sex?"

he looks up at you, pausing for just a second. "do you not want to?"

you gulp, because the most rational choice is to stop. you don't have a condom. and yet, you can't help but imagine the feeling of his cock buried deep into your womb. shit, just the image is enough to have you clenching your pussy.

"please."

your eyes snap back to caleb, and he's giving you that look. that same look he gave you when you helped him put on a shirt in your bedroom. that same desperate, puppy eyes. "please, please let me fuck you." his voice is raw with desperation, and it takes you aback.

"please let's do it, please let me..." he murmurs against your skin, hands going down your hips, lingering further. "let me thrust into you, let me feel how tight you are, please, please."

you stay silent.

"let me fuck you raw, please."

and that's all it takes.

all it takes for caleb to be lounged back against the pillows, his chiseled abs on full display beneath his rumpled shirt, sweat dripping down his flushed face. his eyes were glued to your every move now that your back is facing him (it was easier to put inside that way), a look of pure, unadulterated lust etched on his handsome features as you rode him with slow, sensual rolls of your hips. the way your ass bounced and jiggled with each thrust, swallowing his rock-hard cock to the hilt, left him absolutely spellbound.

caleb's hands quickly grew restless, roaming greedily over your curves. they slid from your hips, up to your waist, before eagerly descending to grasp at the pliant flesh of your ass. his calloused palms smoothed over the supple mounds, squeezing and kneading the giving skin as if he needed to map every dip and swell. he couldn't resist the urge to grab and mold your ass to his hands, his fingers sinking into the plush, pillowy flesh.

he grabbed two generous handfuls, squeezing them almost roughly as he spread your cheeks apart. this allowed him a shameless, unobstructed view of your slick, dripping pussy swallowing his thick cock to the hilt with each roll of your hips. "oh, god..." caleb groaned, his voice low and rough with lust, almost as if he spoke to himself. "you're... taking me so... well. shit, i can't—" his eyes remained watching your walls stretch around him, your body accepting every thick throbbing inch as he bucked up to meet your downward thrusts.

your thighs quivered with exertion, muscles burning from the intensity of your movements. beads of sweat trickled down your back, your body glistening from the heat of what you're doing. yet caleb remained oblivious to your fatigue, his hands still greedily exploring every inch of your curves. his touch turned almost rough in his fervor, fingers sinking into the pliant flesh of your rear with shameless abandon.

"keep going..." caleb's voice was a low, husky murmur, soft even as his grip tightened meanly on your hips. "c'mon, just a little more." he urged you on, eyes still riveted to the debauched sight of your dripping pussy swallowing his cock over and over, his own need overwhelming any thought of your exhaustion. "you can do it—ngh! take... a little more of this dick, bunny."

but, it seems you couldn't take it anymore. caleb felt you starting to slow down, a soft whimper escapes your parted lips. not wanting you to stop, he leans in and captured your cheek with a tender kiss from behind.

seizing the opportunity, he wrapped a strong arm around your waist, gripping you tightly. and with a swift and sudden movement, caleb flipped you both over, your body tumbling down to the armchair of the sofa. the change in position left you face down, your shapely ass now raised and presented.

he takes a moment to admire the erotic sight of your backside up in the air, your dripping pussy on full display, before standing up. rising to his feet behind you, he grabbed your hips in a firm grip, then, with a primal grunt, he slammed his rock-hard cock deep into your soaked, needy hole.

"angggh!" you scream, as caleb sets a wildly fast pace from the start, his hips pounding against your ass with a staccato rhythm, the obscene slap of skin on skin filling the room. he gripped you tighter, pulling you back onto his thick shaft as he pistoned into you, the blunt head of his cock kissing your cervix with each brutal thrust.

the new angle allowed him to plunge even deeper than before, your body shaking from the force of his wild fucking. caleb leaned over your back, his sweat-slicked chest pressing against you as he growled filthy words of praise into your ear. "baby, this pussy is amazing. 'm gonna fucking ruin you, oka-ay?"

this is it.

this is heaven.

this is everything he's ever wanted, ever needed, ever imagined in the silence of his head. he's replayed this scene in him for many impossible times.

caleb's head rolled back, eyes squeezing shut as he fucked into you with wild abandon. guttural whines and grunts spilled from his lips, his hips slamming against yours with a force that shook the sofa.

"caleb, wait... don't cum inside," you gasped out between ragged breaths, feeling your own peak fast approaching. but he paid no heed to your plea, instead choosing to drive into you even harder and faster.

a dark chuckle rumbled up from caleb's chest, vibrating against your back as he leaned over you. "don't cum inside? mmm, you say that, but your pussy is squeezing me so fucking tight," he punctuated his words with a sharp thrust, grinding his pelvis against your ass. "like it's trying to beg for my cum."

suddenly, caleb's hand fisted in your hair, gripping the strands tightly as he yanked your head back. a surprised, wanton moan tore from your throat at the sudden sting of pain, your back arching as he forced your chin to tilt up. your pussy clenched around him, walls fluttering wildly as a fresh gush of arousal flooded your core.

then, without warning, he wrenched his swollen cock out of your dripping cunt, the sudden emptiness making you whimper. before you could process the loss, hot, thick ropes of cum erupted from the weeping slit of his dick, painting streaks of pearly white across the smooth expanse of your ass.

caleb's body shuddered and jerked as he came undone, his low moan rising in pitch until it almost sounded like a sob of ecstasy. he milked his pulsing cock, stroking it through the throes of his intense orgasm until the last weak spurts dribbled onto your skin. panting harshly, caleb slumped forward over your back, his chest heaving against you as he tried to catch his breath. "fuck... fuck..." he gasped, still gripping your hair with a trembling hand.

almost in disappointment, you look back up at him with a slightly confused gaze. "i... i thought you'd cum inside?"

still panting softly from his intense climax, caleb looked up as you glanced back over your shoulder at him. his eyes, though glazed with lust, met yours with a hint of amusement. a lazy smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he took in your questioning gaze.

"what, baby? did you really think i was gonna pull out at the last second?" caleb chuckled, he brushed a few stray strands of hair from your face with his fingertips, his touch surprisingly gentle despite the rough grip he'd had moments before. "i'm still the same guy, dummy."

same guy, sure.

caleb's still the same guy.

he doesn't know better that after he's finally, finally laid his hands on you like this, he'll spiral into something even more worse.

"caleb,"

"mhm?"

"can we... move to your bedroom?" you say softly, eyes tracing the line of caleb's biceps.

his bedroom?

no, anywhere but his bedroom.

caleb gives you a smile, lets out a breath that gives away a laugh. "we can stay here, can't we?" there's no way he'd let you in there. no way he'd let you see the true depths and layers of his feelings for you. the pictures, the posters allover his wall, the collection of pieces he stole from you, even pieces of all the previous people he's killed for you.

caleb inhales the scent of the sweat from your neckline, and he squeezes his eyes shut. "wanna fuck again?"

he won't ever leave you alone again, after this.

#caleb fic

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#caleb fic