Chapter Text
You met Caleb on your very first moving day, just as you were dragging a box half your weight up the stairs, breathless and flushed from the exercise. He appeared then—sun-warmed skin, casual ease, gym bag slung over one shoulder.
“Need a hand?” a bright smile greets you.
He insisted on helping, brushing off your protests with a laugh, and before you knew it, he was carrying boxes up the steps like they weighed nothing.
“This is that new Ikea bookshelf right? Are you sure you don't need any help? I really don't mind heh.”
Even following you inside to help assemble your furniture, all broad shoulders and gentle hands, moving through your new space with the soft loyalty of a golden retriever that had already decided you were his favorite person.
Caleb became your friend easily. Every morning, he greeted you as he jogged past while you locked your door for work. When one of your packages accidentally ended up in his hands, you exchanged numbers.
“If anything happens, or you need some extra strength don't hesitate, kay?”
From there, it became a rhythm—dinner invitations when he “accidentally made too much” movie nights every other Friday, and long talks surrounded by the tiny aircraft models scattered across his apartment. He told you they calmed him after work, though you never learned exactly what that work was.
He was observant. Almost too observant. He noticed the small scratches on your hands before you mentioned how you got them. He learned your schedule without ever asking. Sometimes, when you were too busy to cook, he showed up at your door with a meal he’d prepared, insisting it was “just kindness.” But the way he did it—the timing, the precision—it felt like something else. Like he’d memorized you.
For all his openness, you realized one day that you knew almost nothing about him. His job title was vague, his hours inconsistent, his trips frequent and unexplained. When you asked, he only laughed, saying, “Trust me, it’s so boring I might cry if I talk about it.” You laughed too. Because he made it easy to. His presence was so bright, you forgot to look for shadows.
He called you Pipsqueak now, teasingly, affectionately. He was overbearing in a way you’d grown used to—asking about your meals, your plans, whether you’d eaten, offering to order take-out when you hadn’t. Once he’d hold your phone a beat too long while doing so, smiling softly as he installed a tracker. Later, he’d be enamored again, smiling with a fondness that bordered on worship, in the glow of his own screen, watching your location move across the map like a heartbeat he could track.
Your friends swoon over him during sleepovers. He’s the topic they never tire of.
“How is your sexy neighbor not your boyfriend yet?” they tease, while Caleb smiles next door watching, listening, always near. He likes when they talk about him, likes it more when you blush, and he likes you the most when you're unaware of just how much he already knows.
Then one day, past midnight, everything changes.
The memory still lingers in your mind. You cross paths at 3am while it's storming, both just arriving home at the same time. The raging storm outside has claimed away all warmth in your bodies.
Words drenched in silence. He's wearing a Colonel’s uniform, the insignia near his chest gleaming under the dim hallway light and his posture rigid. Eyes sharp on you. Hard and unreadable.
“...”
Everything about him looked... wrong. Unsettled, you stared at him, breath caught. He said nothing, then his eyes turned away, key unlocking his door as he disappeared inside.
Something about his expression made your stomach twist. This wasn't the man you had met that morning. He didn’t speak, just let the silence between you stretch.
The next day, Caleb was back in his usual joggers and familiar hoodie, cheerful as ever. Like it never happened. Like you imagined it. You never see the uniform again. And maybe you were never supposed to.
Things happened peacefully for a while. When you mentioned a café you liked, he started showing up there. Always before you. “Total coincidence,” he laughs.
But it happens again and again—your favorite bookstore, the gym, even a remote hiking trail you thought was yours alone.
“Oh hey? You also take this trail?”
Every time, he had a reason. You stopped believing these encounters were just “coincidences” long ago.
Then there were the nights you found your door slightly ajar, though you were certain you’d locked it. Caleb was always the first to show up when you mentioned it, his concern too sharp to feel casual. “This place really isn’t safe” he told you once. “You need someone watching out for you.”
The next morning, there was a new lock on your door. You hadn’t installed it. He handed you a key and smiled.
“Now you're safe. I'm gonna keep a copy in case of an emergency, kay?”
“Sure… thanks Caleb” your answering smile makes him shudder, you pretend not to notice.
Sometimes, late at night, when you think you are alone, he watches you from his dark room, blue-lit screen painting his features. Desire twists inside him, a hunger too deep to name as he stares at your own hand sliding down, past the waistband, your movements, your body bathed in dim light as pleasure engulfs you.
“Haa, nghh—”
Oblivious to how completely he’s memorized you—how every breath, every shiver, every sound was etched into him. His hands ache with restraint, his thoughts fevered, possessive. He wants to claim you, to mark you as his. He wants to reach out, to touch, fuck into.
And sometimes, in the quiet hours, when you think you hear footsteps outside your window, you tell yourself it's the wind. But when you open the curtains, there's nothing—nothing but the lingering scent of his cologne in the cold air, thick and overwhelming, as if he’d just been standing there, breathing you in.
𓆩✯✯✯𓆪
Your neighbor, Caleb, is an enigma you often catch yourself thinking about too much during work, at home, and out with friends. He’s carved his way into your life so deeply, you’re no longer sure there’s a way out. And yet you have barely scraped the surface of who he is.
There are strange instances, quiet moments where his eyes show someone you've never met. Or maybe you have, on rainy nights wearing a Colonel uniform.
He's watching you differently now as well, gaze lingering too long, locking eyes with you, standing too close in the elevator, walking closer than usual, yet he never touches you, but his proximity hums like static. When he talks, it’s with a comfort that feels older than your friendship, an ease your friends of years don't have.
“You can always rely on me, Pipsqueak, I'll always be there for you.”
He treats your wounds after missions, lectures you about being careless, always with so much care laced in his tone.
“You’re safe here” he says one night, voice low. “I won’t let anyone hurt you.” and you believe him, not out of confidence, but a gut feeling that doesn't go away, born from a fear you can't explain.
That same night he kisses the back of your hand, then your cheek and lastly your lips.
His hands feel safe, warm and calloused, caressing every corner of your body with so much care, you fall easily into it.
Even if he comes off as overbearing at times. You can deal with it, but not everyone agrees with you.
Your friend Simone doesn’t share the same sentiment for example, warning you constantly. “There’s something wrong with that guy. He watches everything you do, and his eyes never stop moving.” You and Tara laugh it off. She doesn’t. “I’m serious. He looked at me like I was in the way. It's creeping me out.” The five times your friend has met him, none have successfully dissuaded her about him.
One night, Caleb tells you he used to be a pilot. “I’ve seen things,” he says like it’s a confession. “I just wanted to fly. Then suddenly I was preparing a fleet.”
The word “fleet” lodges in your mind, explaining more than it should. “The uniform looks good on you, though,” you say without thinking. It’s a throwaway comment, at least you think it is.
His lips curve upward. Something dark flickers behind his eyes. You miss it when you excuse yourself to the bathroom—the way his smirk spreads, slow and certain, or the flush in his ears and cheeks, red with something that isn’t embarrassment.
After that, he stops pretending.
“You eat late now“ he comments, offhand. “Didn’t use to.” He looks down at his mug, then adds, “That new take-out place gives you hives. You should stop ordering from there.” You nod, cheeks warm, lightheaded by how much he notices. You don’t ask how he knows.
Soon, he starts leaving things behind, his keys, a mug, a jacket, all quiet symbols of presence. Subtle, constant reminders. “It’s natural to forget things at home.” he says with a playful smile. You don’t remember when your apartment became a home to him, what's more surprising is how it doesn't bother you at all. Your cheeks are warming again, that familiar racing heart inside your chest.
He begins to haunt your dreams now as well. At first, it’s only his voice—low, calm, speaking words you can’t quite catch, it spirals as the days blur, his mouth ghosts over your skin now, sensations that fade as soon as you wake.
“What the…” you've cleaned the bedsheets 3 times this week.
The dreams turn even more feverish soon after. You feel his hands too warm, too knowing, caressing every inch of you. His breath starts at your throat going downwards, until it reaches between your legs. Every night, you wake up gasping, aching, panties drenched in shame.
Caleb has noticed you can’t meet his eyes anymore. Not with how vivid the dreams feel. Not with how your body reacts like it remembers something real.
And maybe it does.
Because what you don’t know is that Caleb doesn’t just visit you in dreams. He slips through your door, unseen, always after midnight. He leaves no marks, no evidence, only the heat on your skin and the lingering scent of him you can’t explain. And he tells himself it’s okay, that your soft sighs, your restless movements, the way you whisper his name in your sleep— It means you want this, it's permission.
“So sweet, you call my name even when you sleep.” His hands remove your clothes with practiced ease. Pulling your sleep shorts and underwear down.
“I bet you will soon ask for it awake…” he spreads your legs slowly, thumb caressing your slit, rubbing your folds as your wetness glistens under the moonlight.
“So wet just for me, you crave it as much as me, you want it as much as me. Right? Right baby?” He's breathing hard, gripping your hip with his other hand as he moves his thumb over your clit in circles, your hips jerk, eyebrows bowing down as he quickens his pace.
“You smell so sweet, so good, all just for me.” he breathes you in and groans, eyes rolling back to his skull as his lips meet your skin, tongue sliding inside your folds, licking all the way down and up, focusing on the bundle of nerves that makes you gasp and your hips twitch.
“You don't need anyone else, just me my love. Just me.”
Your moans are soft, approving of his ministrations in his mind, your back arches when his finger slides in easily, he stares in slack jawed awe at your face, his tip leaking so much he coats his shaft in it as he rubs himself.
“Please ask for more. Please want me back, please my love I would do everything for you.”
His moan is deep as he comes all over your hips and belly, teasingly rubbing his tip on your entrance. Hips bucking overstimulated.
He cleans everything methodically, leaves no trace behind, just the ache you have for him after waking up.
𓆩✯✯✯𓆪
One afternoon, you stop by the little coffee shop near your building. Caleb hates this place—claims the coffee tastes burnt—so you go when he’s busy, when you want a moment without his eyes on you.
The barista remembers your order. Smiles at you. Leans in a little too close as he hands you your drink. You smile back, polite, nothing more. You don’t think it matters.
The next time you visit, he’s gone.
No explanation, no goodbye.
His name tag is missing from the counter, replaced by someone you’ve never seen. When you ask where he went, the new guy just shrugs.
Caleb begins disappearing too. Not all at once—he fades. Slower replies, longer work shifts, conversations cut short because he’s already halfway out the door. You hardly catch a glimpse of him anymore.
Lately, the only proof he still exists are the heavy footsteps down the corridor after midnight—the rhythm unmistakable, the sound of his boots echoing in the quiet. And then there’s the smell he drags with him now: faint, metallic, human. It lingers in the hallway long after he’s passed.
You tell yourself it’s nothing.
But it wasn’t there before.
Then one day, he’s simply gone. No warning. No note. His apartment locked. Your texts unread. Your calls unanswered.
You search for him despite yourself—the coffee shop, the bookstore, the overlook at the edge of Linkon—but a cold realization settles in your stomach as you retrace your steps. Every place you check is somewhere you brought him to. Somewhere you mentioned first.
It hits you then, sharp and undeniable: for all the months he’s been in your life, he’s never left a mark of his own. You don’t actually know him. Not really. Maybe you never did.
His absence becomes its own haunting.
You pace your apartment at night. Replay old conversations until they lose meaning. Try to figure out what you said wrong, how you drove him away, if you ever had the right to want him at all. You check the hallway more than you’d ever admit—just in case. Just in hope.
And without him, the building shifts.
Lights flicker more often. Doors creak in ways they didn’t before. The floorboards groan like something settling—or waking.
You try seeing friends, but the heaviness follows you, coiled around your ribs. You tell them you feel watched, even though you know how it sounds. You tell yourself this space is better without him, safer, freer.
But each night is too quiet.
Too cold.
And in that silence, you find yourself listening for footsteps that never come.
You hear about the hunter’s death through Tara—after the Association's general meeting, it's someone you saw just days ago. It’s Simone who tells you he crashed his car. No details given.
“I can’t believe he’s gone. So young,” Jenna mutters behind a hand.
You can’t make your mind wrap around it. He was just here—laughing, alive—and now he’s gone.
The following weeks pass in a blur of grief and obligation: funeral arrangements, back-to-back hunting shifts, exhaustion that sinks into your bones like lead.
You’re drained.
Emotionally, physically, spiritually.
Like the world tilted while you weren’t looking.
You miss Caleb.
He haunts your sleep and your waking hours, sometimes tender, sometimes frightening, always lingering. Some nights you wake up flushed, frustrated, confused why your body answers memories as if they’re real.
When he finally returns, it’s after weeks—weeks that felt like a slow unraveling—and he behaves as though he’s only been gone an afternoon.
You hear the familiar rhythm of his boots, the jingle of his keys, and open your door. He’s standing by himself, suitcase in one hand, keys in the other.
He looks at you.
Smiles like nothing happened.
“Missed me?” he says lightly, almost teasing—like he wasn’t a ghost gnawing at the edges of your thoughts.
You want answers. You want the truth. But the words stick in your throat.
When you don’t speak, he sighs and gives the single explanation he always gives.
“Work.”
As if that’s supposed to fix everything.
Slowly, inevitably, he slips back into your routine. He notices the dark smudges under your eyes.
“You need rest,” he murmurs, voice soft, almost gentle. But somehow the tenderness feels like a collar.
After he returns, he becomes even more attentive. Too attentive. He brings your favorite pastries before you crave them. He notices every shift in your mood.
“You’ve been restless,” he comments one night, tone low. “Too much time alone makes your thoughts spiral, right?”
You nod, because it’s true.
Because you felt it.
Because you lived it.
He smiles, thumb brushing your cheek. “You need structure again. Something… or someone to anchor you.”
And he’s right.
You hate that he’s right.
Caleb’s presence smooths the world back into shape. The nightmares fade. The apartment feels warmer. He restocks your groceries before you realize you’re low. He cooks. He listens. He steadies.
You feel like yourself again.
Or at least the version of yourself that exists around him.
People at work say you’re doing better. You tell him everything. “You probably can’t live without me now, huh?” he teases.
You look at him long enough that the tips of his ears flush red. “Yeah,” you admit softly. “Maybe I can’t, Caleb.”
It leads to a night that won't leave your head.
That night with him burns through you—fast, frantic, inevitable. His hands are rough. His mouth is desperate. He kisses you like he’s claiming territory no one else is allowed to touch
“Beautiful” kiss “so, so pretty just for me” another kiss.
“Caleb, please—please don’t leave again,” you beg before you can stop yourself, clinging to him as pleasure spills through every nerve.
His fingers tighten—too tight—bruising, possessive. Then, abruptly, his touch softens, worshipful, as if he fears you might vanish beneath him.
“I’m never leaving you again,” he whispers against your skin. “You’re mine. Just like I’ve always been yours.”
And he touches you with a certainty that makes your breath break, with a precision that makes you see stars. He moves like he knows your body better than you ever will—every shiver, every sound, every plea pulled from your throat.
Like he never left at all.
𓆩✯✯✯𓆪
There’s a weight in him now—something dense and silent that drags the room down with it. A gravity you feel before you can name it. You notice the blood dried beneath his nails, the hollow stiffness in his shoulders, the look in his eyes when he thinks you aren’t watching. Every survival instinct you’ve ever honed flares and screams, telling you to step back, to run, to be careful.
But then you remember the way his chest feels pressed to your back, how his pupils dilate until they swallow the color from his eyes when he’s between your legs. How your body answers him even when your logic should refuse. Those instincts fall blessedly, stupidly quiet.
One night, Caleb leaves without much ceremony—just muttering something about “errands,” the kind of clipped, vague excuse that almost always means work. There’s that familiar tight-lipped frown, carved into him like a second skin. He kisses your cheek on the way out, distracted, already halfway gone.
You only realize he forgot his tablet when the door shuts behind him. It’s still on the counter, screen dim. Abandoned. Waiting.
You tell yourself not to look. You know you shouldn’t. But his birthday is coming up, and he never gives you anything to work with—no favorite movie, no childhood anecdote, no casual preferences.
He knows you down to the roots, down to the smallest gesture. Meanwhile, he remains a locked room.
So you hesitate. Stare at the screen. Try to convince yourself this is harmless. Just curiosity. Just wanting to know something.
Your fingers hover.
The passcode comes to you unbidden—something you caught months ago, back when you first met him, too brief a glimpse to have remembered.
And yet you do.
You type it in.
It unlocks. Immediately.
Your breath stutters.
The home screen opens onto a grid of video feeds. Live feeds.
Your bedroom.
Your hallway.
Your kitchen.
The bathroom—angled from behind the mirror, still and clinical.
Even your closet.
Some go back months. As early as your third meeting. Even dates where he told you he was away. Proof—cold, fluorescent, inescapable—that he never truly left. That he was always watching. Always there.
And they’re labeled.
Meticulously.
Organized by date and time, every clip named with quiet, chilling simplicity.
“She cries again (2:08 a.m.)”
“She says my name in her sleep (23:04 p.m.)”
“She hums the song I hummed once (14:37 p.m.)”
Your lungs seize. The room tilts. Your hands tremble so hard you nearly drop the tablet.
You scroll, heart pounding, until you reach a folder that makes the bottom of your stomach collapse.
“Favorites.”
You tap a video before you can stop yourself.
The speakers crackle with sound.
Your sound.
It takes a moment to register that the moans filling the room are your own.