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Caleb’s headcanon -

The Vanguard

Synopsis: It’s been a handful of weeks since the lanterns lit the sky, since whispered wishes melted into the night. You’ve spent the last couple of days in the Arctic with Dr. Zayne, chasing down another lead. Exhausted and buried in work, (which wasn’t exactly your wish for the new year), you’ve finally booked yourself a much-needed retreat for the night. But just as you’re on your way to unwind, you unexpectedly run into Caleb.

Details: Long 3000ish w. A lil role for Dr. Zayne (lol I just had to). Yearning losers. Fluff. Banter. And Caleb. Lots of Caleb. Caleb being Caleb as in always being around the MC. Some unresolved emotions. Roleplay. And as always: Rrrromance. (We just getting started peepz)

The Yearning: @gavin3469 @mcdepressed290

Onsen mist | Chapter I

The research facility hums with quiet energy, the rhythmic clatter of keyboards filling the space like an ever-present pulse. The sterile glow of the overhead lights casts sharp contrasts against the frost-rimmed windows, beyond which the Arctic night stretches vast and endless, a deep indigo canvas dusted with soft, falling snow.

Dr. Zayne is exactly where he’s been for the past several hours—seated at his workstation, fingers flying over the keyboard, sharp eyes flicking between lines of data cascading across the screen. The soft glow from the monitors reflects off his glasses, making his expression unreadable, though you know him well enough to guess he’s lost in the depths of his analysis.

You stretch, rolling your shoulders to shake off the tension of the day. “That’s enough for tonight,” you say, half-command, half-exasperation. “Even you need rest, Zayne.”

A grunt. A slight adjustment of his glasses. More typing.

You sigh, shifting your weight onto one hip. “You’ll burn out before we crack this, you know. Turn into one of those conspiracy theorists who forgets how to blink.”

That earns you a glance—brief, unimpressed, but tinged with something vaguely amused. “Good night,” he says simply, already half-immersed in his work again.

You roll your eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of your lips. “Don’t stay up too late.”

Another grunt. Another hint of movement as he continues typing. Shaking your head, you shoulder your backpack, pull on your mittens, and adjust your woolen hat, tugging it snug over your ears before stepping outside.

The Arctic air slams into you, crisp and bracing. Any lingering warmth from the facility vanishes instantly, replaced by the sting of winter against your skin. The world outside is a quiet, frozen wonderland—snowflakes drifting lazily through the air, catching the light from the facility’s windows like scattered diamonds.

The last few days have been relentless—long hours of research, chasing leads, pushing closer to answers that still dance just out of reach. And while the pursuit has been thrilling, it’s also drained you. Your muscles ache from too many hours hunched over data, your mind is a tangled mess of theories and possibilities.

That’s why you booked the onsen.

A smile spreads across your face as you descend the steps, humming softly to yourself. You can already picture it—the warm water enveloping you, steam curling into the frozen night air, your entire body sinking into a state of perfect relaxation.

Maybe even cucumbers on your eyelids, if you’re feeling extra indulgent. Yes. Perfect.

Thrilled by the anticipation, you instinctively grab your phone, eager to share your excitement with Caleb and keep him in the loop. Without hesitation, you type out a quick message.

You: Just finished work. On my way to the onsen now. If I don’t resurface, assume I’ve melted into bliss.

Your thumb linger over the screen for a second, a small smile tugging at your lips. You had messaged him earlier about this, gushing about the outdoor onsen you found, about how perfect it sounded.

You: You won’t believe what I just found! An actual outdoor onsen in the middle of nowhere. Hot water, steam, cold air… perfection. Booked a late-night soak. I need this so bad.

Had he even answered?

Frowning slightly, you pull your other mitten off with your teeth, thumb hovering over your messages as you step into the snow-covered path leading away from the facility. But before you can check—

Leaning casually against the wall just beyond the entrance, arms folded over his chest, is Caleb.

Your stomach lurches, your entire body going still in the freezing night air.

Wrapped in sleek athletic winter gear, his fitted turtleneck clings to his frame beneath an open, puffy winter jacket, the fabric shifting slightly with the easy rise and fall of his breath. His dog tag, ever-present, hangs just below the collar, catching the faint light as it sways with his movements.

Snow-dusted pants, built for movement, hug his legs, and his boots are planted firmly in the powder beneath him. Ashen-brown bangs are flecked with snow, strands falling loose beneath a broad, warm headband. Ski goggles sit atop his head, their lenses reflecting the facility’s dim lights like twin mirrors.

And his eyes. Those impossible violet irises gleam with cheekiness as they lock onto yours, filled with a teasing spark. A calculated glint.

Next to him, propped against the wall, are a pair of downhill skis—fitting, considering the way your mental state is also currently plummeting at an alarming speed.

Caleb flicks his phone into the air, catches it effortlessly, and, without the slightest hesitation, reads aloud in a smooth, amused tone, “On my way to the onsen now. If I don’t resurface, assume I’ve melted into bliss.”

He glances up at you, violet eyes gleaming with mischief. “Melted into bliss?” he echoes, tilting his head as if considering it. Then he smirks, tucking the phone away. “Nah, can’t have my Pip-squeak dissolving into oblivion without me. Wouldn’t be very gentlemanly.”

Caleb steps closer, the cold air curling between you. “Sooo… Figured I’d join in—purely for your safety, of course.”

Your breath stutters. “Uh—”

Your brain has completely short-circuited. Between the overwhelming presence of him, the ridiculous way he just happens to be here, and the nickname—Pip-squeak—the one only he calls you, always, no matter the situation, like it’s your actual name rather than just something he made up. And now, with that smug edge in his voice and the absolute audacity to hijack your private relaxation like it was his all along, it’s enough to send your thoughts scattering into the cold air like the snowflakes around you.

His smirk lingers, that damnably confident curve of his lips. “I promise I won’t get in the way. The onsen’s big enough for the both of us, right?”

And before you can even process the situation enough to say anything more than a bewildered ‘uh,’ he lifts a gloved hand.

Between his fingers—

An identical ticket to the one sitting in your coat pocket.

——————————————————————————

The Arctic night yawns wide and silent around you, a world blanketed in snow and soft moonlight. The only sound is the steady crunch of your boots against the packed frost, your breath curling in delicate silver clouds before vanishing into the dark. Snowflakes descend in slow, lazy spirals, catching in your lashes, clinging to the fur lining of your coat. The cold is sharp, invigorating—but not unpleasant.

Not with him beside you. Yet, a thought lingers—

The last time you were in the Arctic, you hadn’t felt this kind of warmth beside you. No steady presence in the cold.

That absence is something you haven’t let yourself dwell on. Not really. But now, with Caleb walking next to you, solid and real, the contrast is impossible to ignore.

“You didn’t mention you were coming out here.”

Your voice is even, casual, but the words hang in the space between you—lingering, testing.

Caleb shifts the skis on his shoulder, adjusting their weight with practiced ease. The motion is smooth, effortless—just like his timing.

“Figured I’d pick up an old winter hobby—kill some time while you worked.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real bite to it. Of course he did. Caleb has always done this. Appeared. Slipped into your orbit like he was always meant to be there, whether you had invited him or not.

Unshakable. Inevitable.

The thought lingers as the two of you walk, his presence a quiet heat against the Arctic cold. Even through layers of wool and winter gear, he radiates warmth—a constant, steady ember against the frozen world around you.

A gust moves between you both, crisp and cutting, but the silence is sharper.

Then, after a beat, Caleb’s voice slips through the cold, smooth and low—deceptively easy.

“Been a while since we’ve done this.”

A statement. Not a question. As if he has any right to say it—to claim that time, that absence, like it was just a minor inconvenience.

Caleb was supposed to be constant. The one thing in your life that never drifted, never disappeared. And then he was gone. No warning, no goodbye, just a hollow space where he used to be—a space you had to carry alone.

You don’t say it. But you think it. And it stings.

And now he walks beside you like he never left. Like the space between then and now is nothing more than a fortnight passed.

The worst part? Sometimes… it feels that way.

How Caleb came over at New Year’s with that knowing smirk, like he had every right to be there. How he settled onto your couch, arms draped over the back, watching you with lazy amusement as you practiced your drawing skills on him. How he tilted his head just so, baring the line of his throat for you, letting you sketch the curve of his neck with slow, careful strokes. How you let him stay.

The feeling rises too fast, sharp and jagged—caught between the ache and the quiet betrayal. One part of you still can’t forgive him for making you mourn him; the other aches to let it go, to pull him even closer.

And because you don’t know what to do with all of it—

You do the most logical thing.

You lunge for the snow, scoop up a handful, and—without hesitation—shove it straight into his face.

A satisfying crunch. A sharp inhale.

For the first time all evening, Caleb is the one caught off guard.

He jerks back, shoulders tensing, breath sucking in sharply as the freezing snow collides with his skin, clings to his cheekbones, melts against the heat of him. His lashes are dusted white, his hair flecked with frost, his lips parted in surprise.

For one perfect moment, he is stunned.

And then—

Caleb relaxes his shoulders. He exhales slow, deliberate, and tilts his head, smiling.

Not just any smile. That smile.

The one that always, always means trouble.

“Oh, you’re gonna regret that, Pips.”

Before you can even get a second step in, he’s already moving, his speed unfair, his reflexes honed from years of training. His gloved hand catches your wrist in a firm but gentle grip, spinning you back toward him. The world tilts as you stumble into his chest, and suddenly, he’s right there, looming over you. Close.

In that closeness, his grip around your wrists tightens—not rough, but firm. As if he’s grounding himself as much as holding you there, unwilling to let go. Snowflakes cling to his dark lashes, melting against his skin, and his violet eyes shimmer—something unreadable flickering beneath the weight of his gaze. His breath curls between you, a whisper of warmth against the cold, dissolving into the space where neither of you move.

The playful spark in his gaze dims for a fraction of a second, something raw slipping through the cracks of his carefully maintained composure. His eyes drop—to your lips, to the small space between you, to possibility.

You don’t think. You don’t question. You just rise onto your toes, closing the distance, pressing the lightest, barest kiss against the corner of his mouth.

It’s fleeting, barely there—but it shatters something.

Caleb stills. Completely.

For the second time that evening, you catch him off guard.

His grip on your wrist loosens, but he doesn’t pull away, his breath warm against your cheek, his exhale slow, measured—like he’s trying to process what just happened. And then, finally, he blinks, a slow smile tugging at the corner of his lips—but it’s not his usual one. It’s softer, warmer, something almost reverent.

But instead of saying anything helpful, he only murmurs, “You are so, so unfair.”

And then—he lets go.

You step back, suddenly reeling, suddenly aware of what you just did. But Caleb only chuckles, shaking his head—like he’s already committing this moment to memory, already tucking it away where he keeps the things he’ll never forget.

——————————————————————————

The warm glow of lanterns spills over the snow-dusted entrance of the onsen, casting golden reflections onto the smooth wooden floors. The air shifts the moment you step inside—the biting Arctic cold left behind, replaced with the scent of cedar, damp heat curling through the hallways.

Caleb steps in after you, pulling the door shut behind him, and for a moment, there’s just silence—the kind that makes your skin prickle, makes you hyper-aware of every movement, every shift in the air between you.

The receptionist greets you with a warm smile, bowing slightly as she gestures toward the entrance hall, lined with low wooden benches for guests to remove their shoes and outer layers. You move first—because moving is easier than thinking.

Your fingers feel almost clumsy as you tug at your gloves, slipping them off one by one before reaching for your coat. The layers are heavy, the fabric thick with frost from the journey here. Caleb doesn’t say anything, but you can feel him watching as you unwind your scarf, pulling it free from where it had been tucked against your collar.

You steal a glance at him—just a quick, fleeting thing—but it’s enough.

His gaze flicks back to yours, and the corner of his lips quirks. And tose impossible violet orbs stay on you—like he knows exactly what you’re thinking, like he’s giving you the chance to acknowledge it.

You sit down, fingers moving automatically to unlace your boots, the motion practiced, steady—your silent answer. But your heart hasn’t settled. It’s still thrumming, still caught in the moment where your lips brushed against his, a fleeting, chaste outburst of weakness you refuse to address.

Boots off. Thick socks peeled away. You tuck them neatly beside your belongings before standing, pressing your hands against the smooth wood of the bench to ground yourself. Caleb mirrors you without hesitation, toeing off his boots in a fluid motion, rolling his shoulders like shedding the layers makes him lighter.

Like he’s comfortable here, comfortable with you—settling back into a space that was always his, as if time never carved him out of it.

And just as you start to turn away, he moves closer, a whisper of contact trailing behind him. His hand skims against your waist, featherlight but intentional.

A question, a test. Then comes the softest press—barely a kiss, nothing more than the warmth of him against the shell of your ear.

“So… are we pretending that didn’t just happen, or should I act accordingly?” he murmurs, voice low, edged with something dangerous and knowing.

Your breath hitches—a fraction, almost imperceptible.

And then—he steps away.

As if nothing happened.

As if the tension humming between you is nothing but steam in the air, waiting to dissipate.

The receptionist returns, all polite enthusiasm, bowing as she welcomes you both. And just like that, the moment is swallowed up, tucked neatly away under the weight of formality.

“Welcome,” she beams. “Ah, and what a lovely couple!”

Your brain short-circuits.

You open your mouth—to politely protest, to correct her—but Caleb, damn him, is faster.

His hands find your waist again, like a tide returning to shore—inevitable, familiar, unhurried.

“Appreciate it,” he tells her smoothly. “She booked us something nice, didn’t she?”

The receptionist nods eagerly, already convinced. “Oh, of course! You’re both in for a wonderful experience.”

Caleb leans in just enough—his voice low against your ear, smug as hell.

“Don’t look so shocked, Pips. It’s not like we haven’t had practice.” Caleb smirks, tilting his head slightly, eyes gleaming with mischief. “Who knows? If we keep this up, maybe they’ll knock a little off the bill.”

And you hate that he’s right. Because you’ve done this before—played pretend, slipped into roles without thinking.

In high school, when Caleb needed a buffer from whatever girl had decided she was in love with him that week. In college, when he’d throw an arm around you at parties to keep unwanted attention off you.

It had always been easy, effortless.

And if it ever meant securing a couple’s discount at the cinema, neither of you had ever hesitated to lean into the act—his arm draped lazily over your shoulders, your head tucked against his chest, the cashier none the wiser.

The receptionist furrows her brows slightly as she scans the reservation details again.

“Oh! It looks like there was a mix-up in the system.” She tilts her head, flipping through the records. “You both had individual reservations for the public onsen with single rooms, but it should have been processed as a couple’s booking. That must have been an error on our end—our IT system has been acting up all week!”

You stiffen. Caleb, meanwhile, looks entirely composed.

The receptionist claps her hands together, beaming. “No worries, though! We just had a last-minute cancellation on our most exquisite suite—the only room available that accommodates two guests. Since the issue was on our end, we’ll upgrade you both at no extra charge!”

Her smile turns even more delighted. “Oh, and what perfect timing! I just love seeing young love.”

Caleb hums in approval, clearly entertained.

“Hear that, Pips?” He tilts his head toward you, his grip at your waist tightening ever so slightly. “She loves young love.”

You stomp on his foot.

At least, you try to.

Caleb moves before impact, smoothly adjusting his stance, unshaken, and laughs under his breath.

“How generous,” you manage, forcing a strained, polite smile.

Caleb’s grin widens. He leans in just enough—just to you, just to press his voice into your ear.

“Maybe we’ll get champagne too if you hold my hand.”

You consider shoving him into the koi pond at the entrance.

But the receptionist is already gesturing down the hall, giving you an enthusiastic rundown of the suite’s luxurious amenities. Caleb doesn’t move his arm from your waist. He doesn’t have to—because whether you realize it or not, you’re already leaning into him, already falling into place.

This is a game you’ve played before—played so well, for so long. But something about it feels different this time. When you finally glance up at him—when his violet eyes flick down to meet yours—you swear he isn’t pretending.

And the worst part? Neither are you.

Chapter II

——————————————————————————

Writer’s note: Part one of the series, yay! Peepz we’re looking at a slow burn, but I hope it’s as enjoyable for you as it is to me. I just love writing their dynamics, simpsimp. Okey then, thank you for reading pt1 🫶🏻

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