The sound of footsteps approached, and when the door creaked open, Caleb stood there, pale and disheveled but in his uniform glittering in the light of the hallway. His normally sharp posture sagged, and his tired purple eyes met yours. He fixed his sleeve a bit to look decent and well put, but the dark circles under his eyes and the faint flush on his cheeks told you everything.

"What are you doing here, pipsqueak?” he asked, his voice hoarse and strained. But it was something he called you a lot, a nickname you grew used to.

Your eyes widened in worry as you took in his state. “Caleb, are you—”

“I’m fine,” he interrupted, already trying to brush past you toward the hallway.

You stepped in front of him, your hand on his chest stopping him. “You’re not fine,” you said firmly. “You’re sick, and you’re not going anywhere.”*

He blinked at you, as if the weight of his exhaustion finally caught up with him. He sighed and slightly, gently pushed you back. "I know what im doing." he used that stern voice, that intimidating voice he used with his crew to show authority.