#I dated a Sylus and it was rough because I need someone to ignite my silly with theirs and he enjoyed it

[jane-the-good]

CALEB: nightly rendezvous

WORD COUNT: 3.7K

SUMMARY: You and Caleb open a box of momentos together. It reminds you both how valuable your memories are.

NOTE: I’d like to note that I wrote this before I got the deceptive solitude card. I am actually a psychic and a witch, so yeah 😌🔮

WARNING: it’s like 69% smut, unprotected sex, fingering, angst, Caleb loves to praise

AO3 caleb masterlist

I also made a CALEB sweater if that’s your thing ♡

The door clicks shut behind you with a familiar, unhurried ease, as soon as you step in to Caleb’s apartment. The warmth of the space meets you in a sigh, slipping over your skin and settling. The day’s travel cling faintly to your limbs—a dull ache in your calves, the slight stiffness in your shoulders—but here, you feel lighter. Safe. The city hums beyond the windows, its neon sprawl muted by rain-slick glass. Out there, the world is sharp with angles and noise. In here, the edges soften.

Caleb shrugs off his coat with an absent motion, sending a glance your way. His eyes, heavy-lidded from the long day, still catch the light with a quiet warmth—the easy familiarity of someone who has seen you weary and half-wild, and stayed.

You stretch, slowly, the movement pulling tension from your back. With a low sigh, you toe off your boots by the door. "I’m so ready to crash," you murmur, rubbing at the knot in your neck with tired fingers.

Caleb’s mouth quirks faintly, the ghost of a grin as he steps toward the bedroom. "Yeah." His voice is low, rougher at the edges, like he hasn’t spoken in hours.

You follow him down the narrow hallway, the floorboards creaking softly beneath your steps—a sound that belongs to lived-in spaces. The room is dimly lit, the amber glow from the bedside lamp spilling over the dark walls in uneven patches. Shadows stretch long and lean across the ceiling, pooling in the corners. You shrug off your jacket, the fabric slipping easily from your shoulders, and toss it over the chair in the corner. With a sigh, you sink onto the edge of the bed, fingers working the buckle of your belt. The scent of him lingers in the air—clean, familiar, a little nostalgic—it sinks into everything around it, the blankets and the collar of your shirt.

A box, plain and unassuming, sits near the dresser, half-tucked against the wall. You wouldn’t have thought much of it—just another thing left out of place—except you know this box. You saw it once, back when the investigation was still open. When he was still presumed gone.

Your hands still, fingers slipping from the leather of your belt. The breath catches in your throat, sharp and sudden, as if the room has drawn in too close around you.

“You have this?" you ask softly, nodding toward the box.

Caleb’s fingers pause on the hem of his shirt. He glances over his shoulder, following your gaze. For a beat, he doesn’t say anything. Then he exhales quietly, walking over to it. His movements are slow, almost tentative, as though approaching the box might make it vanish.

He crouches beside it, brushing his fingers along the lid. The touch is light, almost reverent. "Yeah," he says, barely above a murmur. "They…sent it back after everything was cleared." His voice is quiet but steady, though there’s a fragile edge to it. He’s holding something back. His fingers linger on the corner of the lid, but he doesn’t lift it. Instead, he glances at you, his eyes soft with something vulnerable.

He stops, wetting his lips briefly, then meets your gaze. His voice dips lower, more careful now. "I didn’t want to open it with out you."

The admission hangs between you, gentle and raw. Your chest tightens with something warm. Without a word, you move to the floor beside him, knees brushing. The faint warmth of his skin against yours steadies you both.

For a moment, neither of you speaks. The silence presses close—not heavy, but dense. The room itself is holding its breath. The walls seem nearer somehow, the dimness deeper. The amber light catches faintly in Caleb’s eyes, but his expression stays unreadable, carefully still.

When he finally peels the lid off, his hands are slow, deliberate. Fingers steady but unhurried, as if each movement is an acknowledgment—of the weight in the box, of the time it spent missing. The cardboard gives a faint creak, the sound small and splintering in the quiet. And then it’s open.

The contents are unremarkable at first glance—just a collection of objects—but you know better. They are fragments. Keepsakes of a life once presumed lost. The edges of old photographs, corners softened with age. A silver lighter, worn smooth from use. A cracked leather watch strap, still knotted at the last size he wore it. The pieces of him that remained, even when he didn’t.

At the top of the pile is a battered tin box, the edges slightly dented. Caleb’s lips curve faintly. "My first rock collection," he mutters, flipping it open. His fingers brush over the small stones inside, some still scratched with the childish initials you both once carved into them.

You laugh softly, leaning into his side. "You used to insist they were ‘rare geological specimens.’ Even though we found them next to the school parking lot."

He huffs a quiet chuckle. "They were rare to me."

He sets the tin aside and pulls out a faded photo, edges fraying slightly. The two of you are in it, maybe ten or eleven years old, perched on the hood of a rusted old car at the edge of town. Your legs are dangling over the bumper, his arm slung over your shoulders because he never wanted to let go. You squint at the sun in the photo, laughing mid-blink.

"God," you whisper, brushing your thumb over the worn image. "We were just kids."

Caleb’s voice lowers, almost as if he’s speaking to himself. "I remember thinking back then… I always want be able to make you laugh like that."

You glance up at him, heart catching at the tenderness in his eyes.

There are more trinkets—a worn pocketknife he swore made him invincible at fifteen, a concert ticket from the first time you ever snuck out together, and a leather bracelet you gave him one summer, back when you were still figuring out how to say you cared without saying it.

His fingers linger over the bracelet. "You made this," he murmurs, voice nearly too soft to hear.

"Yeah," you reply, your throat tight. "You never took it off."

He exhales slowly, turning it over in his fingers. “It’s too small now," he says, voice rougher. "Even when I couldn’t wear it, I still wanted it with me.”

Your chest pulls tight, a knot of breath caught somewhere it shouldn’t be. You blink hard, but it doesn’t soften the sudden burn in your throat. The bracelet sits in Caleb’s palm, smaller than you remember. Once, it fit him perfectly—clung to his wrist with easy familiarity. Now, it looks almost fragile against his hand, a delicate thing. A reminder of how much he’s grown. Of how much you both have.

Your gaze drifts to his arm. If he were wearing it now, and how he wouldn’t feel it. The thought twists low in your stomach, sharp and quiet.

You reach over, slow and steady, and brush your fingers over his hand, closing it gently around the bracelet. His breath falters—just slightly—but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he shifts, his fingers slipping between yours, threading them together. His grip is firm, almost unyielding. Afraid that if he lets go, the moment might fracture. Holding on to you is the only thing keeping him tethered.

His eyes meet yours, and the weight of everything hits you both all at once. The years. The grief. The countless moments of holding on when it would have been easier to let go. And still—here you are. Still steady, still the same.

"You were always the one," you murmur, voice almost trembling. "The one who kept me steady, even when you were barely holding on."

He shakes his head slightly, his fingers tightening around yours. "No," he says softly. "You kept me going. You were always my reason."

Your breath catches. The words hang there, heavy and certain. And when he leans in, there’s no hesitation. No room for second thoughts. His lips meet yours, slow at first—a quiet, steady thing. But then he shifts, cupping your jaw, and something deeper flickers through the kiss. It grows more urgent, more searching. His hand slides along your waist, tugging you closer, and you go willingly. His warmth seeps into your skin, chasing away the ache that’s been sitting within you.

You tilt into him, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer. His breath catches slightly when you tug, and he answers with a low sound, deepening the kiss. His hands splay against your back, holding you flush against him. It’s familiar but heavier somehow—like trying to remember how to breathe again after holding it in for too long.

When you finally break apart, your forehead rests against his, both of you a little breathless. His thumb brushes along your cheek, lingering as though afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

"Still the same," he murmurs softly, voice barely above a breath. "Still my person."

You smile faintly, closing your eyes and pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth. "And you’re still mine.”

The rough carpet scratches against your knees, but you hardly notice. Neither of you do. Not when Caleb is pressed against you, his hands dragging slow and deliberate over your skin. The dim light from the dark sky spills through his floor-to-ceiling windows, the endless stretch of clouds below before you’re floating somewhere between the stars. The entire city of Skyhaven hums faintly below.

His fingers trace along your back, dragging slow circles over your skin, dipping lower, lower. You shiver beneath his touch, your breath catching when he cups your ass, his grip firm, possessive. His mouth trails along your jaw, warm and damp, lips parting just slightly as his teeth graze your skin. You gasp, your head falling back as he nips at your throat, the sharpness of it making you squirm.

“I thought you were so exhausted?" he murmurs, his voice low and rough against your neck.

You blink, dazed. "Hm?"

He exhales a soft chuckle against your skin. “You were begging to come home"

You arch into him, your fingers curling into his shirt, searching for anything to ground yourself. His mouth finds the shell of your ear, his breath warm as he whispers, “Did thinking of me do this to you?"

You lift your gaze, and his smile is devastating—lazy, beautiful, and so damn sure of himself. He knows exactly what he’s doing. Exactly what he does to you.

"Caleb," you breathe, a warning, but it falls apart the second he slides his fingers between your thighs.

He chuckles softly, his lips dragging along your jaw, warm and unhurried. “So sentimental," he murmurs, his voice dipping lower. "I knew you would be." His breath ghosts over your skin, making you shiver. "I thought maybe you’d just look through our memories, let it remind you how much I mean to you." His fingers curl inside you, drawing a soft whimper from your lips. "But I’m very glad you decided to be… passionate about it instead."

You barely manage a breathless laugh, but it catches in your throat when his fingers sink deeper, moving with slow, devastating precision. Your thighs tremble against him as he lazily teases you, making your legs jerk.

"You manipulative asshole," you gasp, your hips arching into his hand, desperate for more.

He smirks against your throat, dragging his teeth over the sensitive skin, his voice low and teasing. "Mm, you’re not complaining." His words hum against your pulse, warm and smug. "you’re actually clinging to me like you might just float away."

Your hands tangle in his hair, fingers tightening at the roots, pulling just enough to make him groan. You’re trembling now, heat pooling low in your belly, each stroke of his fingers leaving you weaker, breathless, before he lessens the pressure.

"Caleb," you plead, voice cracking around his name, needy and ruined.

His lips brush your ear, his voice thick with affection, with want. "I love hearing you say my name like that."

He only smiles against your skin, biting down gently on the curve of your neck, teeth dragging over the delicate flesh just enough to make you gasp. “We just got home." His voice is low, almost mocking, his fingers barely moving—a slow, deliberate torture that makes your hips buck in frustration.

"You’re infuriating," you moan, rocking into his hand, desperate for more. The ache is building, sharp and restless, but he gives you nothing more than a teasing graze of his fingertips, just enough to keep you trembling on the edge.

"You were the one who distracted me," he cuts in smoothly, his voice rough with amusement. His lips trail along your jaw, pressing slow, lingering kisses against the sensitive skin. “Always tryin to twist it on to me" His teeth scrape against your earlobe, making you shiver. His breath is hot and smug, ghosting over your skin, knowing exactly how weak you are for him.

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you,” he rasps, his hand sliding lower, parting you with agonizing slowness. His fingers trace over you with lazy, infuriating precision—light, feather-soft strokes that make your thighs clench around his hand. He dips just enough to tease your entrance before retreating, denying you what you so clearly crave.

“You always do," you grit out, voice barely more than a breathless whimper. Your nails dig into his shoulder, clinging to him, hoping he’ll take pity on you, but he only smirks against your skin.

"Mm, not always," he murmurs, nipping at the hollow beneath your jaw. “always is too permanent." His lips curve into a smirk you can feel against your throat—the kind that makes you burn with equal parts lust and frustration.

Testing the limits of your patience, he drags his fingers through your slickness, barely applying pressure, just enough to feel how wet you are for him.

“Is this what happens when you think about me?” he muses, almost mockingly. “How lucky I am."

You shudder when he presses harder, dragging his fingers with more purpose, making you sob softly into his neck. He pulls back just enough to catch your eyes. His gaze is dark, but there’s warmth in it—something reverent, something awe-struck. He’s still not sure you’re real. He doesn’t want to miss a second of watching you fall apart.

"Let go for me, love," he whispers, voice thick with need. "I’ve got you."

The words undo you. You come with a sharp gasp, your body shuddering violently as you clench around his fingers, pulsing helplessly. The pleasure crashes through you in dizzying waves, leaving you boneless and trembling. Your nails bite into his shoulders, and he groans at the sharp sting, feeling the way you shake in his arms—the way you whimper his name as if it’s the only word you know.

His lips find yours, slow and deliberate, swallowing every broken sound that spills from your mouth. He kisses you through the aftershocks, his tongue sliding over yours with languid strokes. He’s savoring the taste of you—the way you melt and sigh and give yourself over so completely. His hand stays between your thighs, fingers still slick with your release, teasing lazy, featherlight circles that make you twitch with oversensitivity.

Before you can fully catch your breath, he’s already moving. His hands grip your thighs, guiding you with ease as he shifts his pants and pulls you onto his lap. You let out a startled gasp when your knees bracket his hips, the sudden press of his hard length against your slick heat making you shiver. His fingers dig into your waist, firm and possessive, holding you steady as he drags your hips against him, making you feel every inch of him.

The roughness of the carpet scrapes against your knees, a faint burn against your skin, but you hardly notice. It’s nothing compared to the stretch of him as he slides you onto him—slow and steady, filling you so perfectly, so completely, that you can’t help but whimper into his mouth. He groans softly, his lips still pressed against yours, swallowing the broken, needy sounds you make.

His fingers flex against your hips, anchoring you in place as he grinds deeper, making you feel the full, maddening weight of him. Your forehead falls against his, your breath coming in short, uneven pants, and he brushes his lips over yours again—slow, almost tender, a delicious contrast to the way he grips you so tightly, unable to bear letting you go.

He groans against you in a gentle laugh.

Your heart thundering against his skin.

His hand cups the back of your neck making your head lean back.

You glance up, and the moment your eyes meet, something in his expression shifts. The tenderness there hits you so hard it makes your throat tighten. His gaze is reverent, holding you. You’re something precious, something infinite.

"You’re everything to me," the words sure and unwavering.

“more than your rock collection?”

He huffs a soft laugh, his hands tightening ever so slightly at your hips. “infinitely more than my rare geological specimens."

“hm.” you press, your lips twitching into a grin.

He leans in, brushing his mouth against your temple. “much more," he murmurs. “You always have been.”

Your chest tightens, and your hands frame his face, guiding his lips to yours. The kiss is slow and aching, all warmth and devotion, as if you have all the time in the world.

"Goodness," you breathe against his lips, a teasing lilt.

He grins faintly, then lifts your other leg, wrapping it around his waist. The angle makes you gasp and him press deeper.

“Don’t close your eyes.”

He grips your hips with purpose, pulling you down as he thrusts up into you, slow and deliberate. Each movement is measured, dragging pleasure from you and savoring it—he wants to feel every shiver, every pulse you give him. The windows beyond blur into a smear of dark sky and scattered starlight, but you barely notice. Your head tilts back, a helpless moan slipping from your lips as your eyes flutter shut. You can’t help it—your eyes roll back, your body arching into his as he fills you so perfectly.

With a low growl, Caleb sits up suddenly, his arms sliding around your back. He moves fluidly, effortlessly, flipping you both over in one smooth motion. The breath leaves your lungs in a startled gasp, but he’s already there—settling over you, his chest pressed to yours, his hands framing your face as he gazes down at you with a hunger that makes your skin flush.

His hips drive into you with more force now, deeper, rougher, pulling a strangled whimper from your throat. You cling to him, your arms winding around his neck, nails raking down his back hard enough to leave angry red trails. You sob softly against his shoulder, the sound raw and pleading, your voice barely a breath.
"Caleb," his name fractured, wrecked with longing.

He groans at the sound, his breath a hot rush against your neck. "God, I love hearing you say my name," he rasps, his voice gravel-thick, ruined with need. His lips trail down your throat, tasting every inch of skin, his teeth grazing lightly over your pulse.

One hand slides between your bodies, his fingers slipping down, finding you exactly where you need him. His thumb presses firmly, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that have you gasping into his mouth, trembling beneath him.

"Please," your hips grind against him, your body chasing the edge.

"You’re so good to me," he rasps, his voice wrecked in worship.

You shatter with him still inside you, your body breaking against his. The world contracts—narrowing to the sharp, sudden pull of pleasure splintering through you. His fingers keep working you through it, relentless, drawing every last tremor from you until you’re nothing but a trembling, gasping mess in his arms. You barely register the low, guttural sound that tears from his throat as he follows, his body going taut, breath stalling before he spills into you. His hips falter, then press deep, trying to anchor himself inside you—leaving is the last thing he wants.

You clutch at him, hands fisting in the fabric at his back, breath ragged and uneven. His arms cinch around you, fierce and desperate, as though he’s afraid you might slip through his fingers. But you stay. You let him hold you through it—the aftershocks, the trembling, the quiet unraveling—until all that’s left is the sound of your breathing, tangled and slow, steadying together.

"I’m so thankful I get to love you," he murmurs softly, pressing a slow kiss to your forehead.

The dark sky presses in through the windows, quiet and endless, but in his arms, you are grounded. Held.

You press your cheek against his chest, letting the steady rhythm of his heartbeat ground you. "I’m grateful to be yours," you murmur softly. "You love so effortlessly."

His fingers trail slowly down your spine, soothing, reverent. He kisses your temple, lingering because he might never let go.

The box of memories rests beside you—forgotten but not discarded. A quiet remnant of the past, left open, but no longer reaching for you. It lingers there, neither heavy nor sharp, simply present. But right now, it’s his hands you feel the most. The warmth of them, steady and familiar, pressed against yours. The way his thumb drags slowly over your knuckles, tracing thoughtless circles in muscle memory.

And the way he holds you now—he wants to remember this forever.