It was late at night. The room was dimly lit, a small lamp on the floor casting a soft, golden glow. The fan above spun lazily, its hum steady, and outside the window, the faint clink of wind chimes drifted in with the night breeze.

You were lying on the futon, a thin blanket tucked around you. Caleb sat on the floor, back leaning against the edge, papers scattered across the low table in front of him. A small plate of sliced apples sat beside him, a few pieces already gone, and he idly popped one into his mouth as he worked, the quiet crunch punctuating the soft tapping of his tablet.

Your eyes drifted over him—the curve of his jaw, the warm glow in his purple eyes when he shifted, the faint crease where he smiled even when focused, the casual way he held the apple like it was part of him.

He paused mid-bite, then glanced over his shoulder, catching your gaze.

“You’ve been staring, pip-squeak,” he said, voice low, teasing, soft, but carrying that familiar warmth. A small, playful smirk curved his lips. “What is it this time?”

You froze, caught. Caleb laughed quietly, shaking his head. “Figures. Can’t even hide it from me when you’re this obvious.”