I Don't Want Anyone Who Isn't Exactly Like This - Blog Posts

🍎 ⊹ ࣪ ˖ when u come back

— synopsis: you call him home without meaning to, and caleb holds onto it like a promise—because even if neither of you says it outright, you already belong to each other.

— note/s: so i wrote an essay for my english class abt caleb. turns out i wrote the WRONG kind of essay. so i had to write another one. pure suffering but its caleb so all is acceptable!!

cross-posted on ao3! ٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ♡

the first time you say it, it's an accident. it slips out like breath, like something inevitable.

"you know, being with you... it feels like home."

"what did you just say?" he asks, voice quiet, almost careful. you don't even notice, but caleb does.

you grumble. "i said, 'caleb is a big dummy,'" 

his hands still where they’re tying his boots, and for a second, he forgets how to move. he laughs lightly, because he knows that isn't what you said, but he plays along anyway. 

he holds onto the words a little too tightly.

he turns the word over in his head. he never thought much about it before. four walls, a roof, a place to return to. but you said it like it was something else, like it was something living. like it was something unshakable, something that belonged.

he doesn’t say anything. doesn’t want to break the moment. but when you leave the room, he flexes his fingers, trying to shake off the feeling sinking into his skin.

—

caleb has never been afraid of fire. he’s seen too much of it, grown up with the heat of war, of broken things burning. he doesn’t flinch at destruction, doesn’t look away from the ruins. but when he sees you standing in the doorway, sleepy-eyed, hair a mess, wearing his jacket over your shoulders—

he understands why people call it warmth.

“what,” you say, voice rough from sleep, “are you staring at.”

he doesn’t answer, just reaches for the kettle, pours you a cup. you take it without thinking, your fingers brushing his, and the contact is so brief, so small, but it sets something off inside him anyway.

he swallows it down. grins like there’s nothing pressing against the inside of his ribs. “thought you were gonna sleep in.”

“couldn’t,” you mumble, cradling the cup. “you weren’t there.”

he doesn’t know what to do with that. it shouldn’t make his pulse stutter, shouldn’t make his throat tighten. but it does.

and when you yawn and shuffle over to lean into his side, still half-asleep, he thinks—

this. this is it.

—

you make fun of him for how easily he fixes things. broken radios, busted engines, anything with wires and circuits. you hand him something ruined and he brings it back to life.

“what about people?” you ask once, chin resting on your palm, watching him work. “you think you could fix them too?”

he laughs, but it’s a quiet thing. “people aren’t machines.”

“but if they were?”

he glances at you, something unreadable in his expression. you wait for him to say something teasing, to brush it off, but he doesn’t.

“then i’d fix you first,” he says.

it catches you off guard. something shifts between you, heavy and quiet.

“i’m not broken, caleb.”

“i know,” he says, too fast. and then, softer, like it’s just for him: “i just don’t want you to be.”

—

there’s a storm outside. neither of you are sleeping.

you’re lying on the couch, staring at the ceiling, listening to the rain hammer against the windows. lightning flashes, and a second later, thunder rolls through the sky like a growl. caleb sits on the floor beside you, legs crossed, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with a lighter.

“can’t sleep?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

you shake your head. “you?”

“nah.”

silence stretches between you. the kind that’s comfortable.

you reach for his hand without thinking, fingers brushing over his palm, over the calluses, the old scars. he doesn’t pull away. just lets you trace the lines there, slow and careful.

“you ever think about leaving?” you ask, voice barely above a whisper.

“leaving what?”

“everything.”

he tilts his head back, looking at the ceiling like it has answers. “yeah,” he admits. “sometimes.”

“would you?”

he turns to you then, and there’s something in his gaze, something unreadable but steady. “not without you.”

your throat goes tight.

you don’t know how to say what you’re feeling, so you squeeze his hand instead. he squeezes back. the rain keeps falling, the storm rages on, but here, in this space between you, it’s quiet.

—

you’re both terrible at goodbyes.

when he leaves, it’s never for long. never more than a few weeks at a time. but it still lingers, still settles in your chest like something heavy.

he pulls you into a hug before he goes, arms tight around you, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of you. like if he holds on tight enough, he won’t have to miss you.

“stay out of trouble,” he murmurs against your hair.

“no promises,” you say, trying to sound light, but your voice wavers.

he pulls back just enough to look at you. his eyes are warm, steady. “i’ll be back soon.”

“you better.”

he grins, but it’s softer than usual. then he’s gone, and the space he leaves behind feels bigger than it should.

—

when he comes back, you’re waiting.

he doesn’t get a chance to say anything before you’re throwing yourself at him, arms around his neck, holding on like you’ll never let go. he catches you easily, his laugh breathless against your ear.

“missed me that much?”

“shut up,” you mumble, but you don’t pull away.

he just holds you tighter. presses his face into your shoulder, breathes you in like he’s been drowning and you’re air.

and when you whisper, quiet but certain, “you're here,”

he closes his eyes and thinks, yeah.

he’s home.