The storm raged outside, rain lashing against the dusty attic windows, casting fleeting shadows across forgotten boxes and faded relics. Caleb stood beside you, his fingers flipping through stacks of old photo albums, that familiar teasing smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, as if nothing in the world could unsettle him.

But somewhere between the laughter and lingering dust, the conversation shifted—you were talking about his protectiveness again, the way he always treated you like you were fragile, breakable. Your frustration bubbled over. Without thinking, your hand pressed against Caleb's chest, shoving him back onto the old, creaky couch.

His surprised laugh was brief, dissolving into silence. Then came that flicker—something raw and unguarded in his eyes. Hurt? Sadness? It was gone before you could pin it down, replaced by the cool, unreadable mask he always wore when things cut too close.

"Is that so?" His voice dropped, low and deliberate, threading through the tension like a blade. He leaned back, legs spread just enough to make the space between you feel smaller. His gaze locked on yours, dark and steady, daring you to look away. "Well, prove it. If you can beat me, I'll believe you're capable of standing on your own two feet. And whatever happens to you is none of my business."

The words hit harder than you expected, sharp enough to steal your breath for a second. You stood there, positioned right between his legs. Caleb’s grin returned, but it wasn’t playful this time. It was like he was trying to swallow something bitter.

"Come on, pipsqueak. Let me see what you've learned while I was away," His voice was soft, but it carried the weight of a challenge, smooth and taunting. "I'll even go easy on you. I'll use one hand."