Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

“There's no such thing as a small god. Once somebody starts playing God, sooner or later, things will get out of hand.”

There are certain things in life that only make sense when you place them side by side with absurdity. Like a pope standing beneath strobing lights in a rave, or a bird choosing the cage instead of the sky. 

Events so fundamentally wrong they almost loop back around to feeling deliberate. As if they were designed.

What never once crossed your mind—while tracking game along the outskirts behind the plateau, boots crunching through frost-bitten gravel and dead brush—was the possibility of stumbling upon something like that.

The facility reveals itself gradually, as if reluctant to be seen, hiding away in shadows. A sheer cliff face gives way to geometry that does not belong to nature, its massive gray walls rising at sharp, unnatural angles, their surfaces pitted and weather-scarred but unmistakably reinforced. You look for anything that can give away something, but there is no signage or markings. Just concrete, steel, and silence. It looms with the unmistakable presence of intent, like a thing built to endure scrutiny—and hide from punishment.

At first glance, it feels like a villain’s lair you think, or worse, a place where villains never needed to announce themselves. A government black site? maybe. A warehouse for secrets that were never meant to survive daylight? Most probable.

You hesitate, even if you're trained and have gone through more dangerous places, there is something specifically off about this one.

Then curiosity wins, as it always does.

Inside, the air changes immediately. Stale, scent metallic and cold in a way that sinks into your bones rather than skin. The corridors stretch on in sterile monotony, broken only by flickering emergency lights and doors that lead nowhere in particular, some open into empty rooms stripped bare, others into collapsed sections choked with debris. Stairs descend—too many of them—spiraling down into darkness that feels thick, almost gravitational in its pull.

After the third descent, your survival instincts finally speak up, sharp and insistent. This is how people die in stories like yours. Not heroically. Not remembered. Just… gone.

“What the hell was happening here?” you murmur, the sound of your own voice feeling intrusive, wrong, as if the walls themselves might be listening.

Evidence answers you anyway.

Tables are littered with documents, their edges curled and yellowed, diagrams half-burned or smeared with something dark and dry. Empty vials roll beneath your touch, clinking softly—too softly—against metal surfaces. Flasks crusted with residue line the walls like forgotten specimens. And everywhere, mounted at odd angles, are X-rays.

Not human. Well not entirely.

Your fingers brush across them, tracing silhouettes that are wrong in subtle ways, bones reinforced with lattices, joints replaced by angular machinery, spines threaded with something dense and dark. You swallow.

“It almost looks like…” Your voice trails off as your fingertips reach a corkboard, overcrowded with notes and scribbles, the handwriting is rushed and desperate, there are strings of calculations that overlap anatomical sketches, some drawls are actually corrections that have been scratched violently into the margins.

You rush through them, finding titles, names, descriptions.

[Study 1. Human experimentation.]

[Study 56. Augmented musculature. Study 78. Day 1343 - Mechanical integration.]

Equations spiral into formulas, gravitational tolerances, energy output, stress limits far beyond organic capacity. 

The science of all of it is staggering, wrong in so many ways yet for a moment, awe cuts clean through your fear.

This wasn’t theoretical. This was working.

You hum softly, piecing together the clues despite yourself. You are standing in a place you were never meant to find. A place that must have consumed millions in funding, manpower, and time. And yet—everything is abandoned. Left to rot. As if someone had simply turned off the lights and walked away.

Your boot scrapes against debris and something crunches—dry, crystalline. A strange blue-tinged fluid stains the floor, long since evaporated into brittle residue. You step again—

—and hit something solid.

An arm slips out from beneath a crooked door as your heart slams into your throat.

“AAH—!?”

The shout ricochets violently down the corridor as you stumble back, gun snapping up on instinct, hands shaking as adrenaline floods your system. You pant, waiting for movement. Waiting for anything.

Nothing happens. Your breathing slows. Your gaze steadies. The arm is… wrong.

Human in shape, in proportion—but forged from blackened steel instead of flesh. Plates interlock seamlessly along the forearm, etched with intricate patterns that catch the dim light like circuitry veins, the joints are too precise, too perfect. Not a single sign of decay despite the skin looking pale and dead at the shoulder.

It doesn’t move though.

Carefully, cautiously, you lower your weapon and step closer. The arm leads to a body.

The door gives way with a groan as you pull it open, and whatever self-preservation you had left dissolves completely.

He’s lying there, half-buried beneath debris, power cables and conduits trailing from his back like severed veins. The rest of him is just as immaculate, but just the arm is evidently black steel and dark alloy sculpted into a form unmistakably human. Synthetic muscle fibers rest beneath open plating, frozen mid-tension. His face is almost peaceful, framed by wires and fractured glass, so perfectly human it stirs something forbidden within you.

An android? Not dismantled? And not scrapped? He looks preserved even.

Whatever doubts, fears, or instincts screaming at you are silenced by something deeper—something you can’t quite name. You drop to your knees and start pulling him free, hands brushing cold skin, no, not skin, it's too cold to be alive, yet too perfect to look like dead metal.

On the last pull, something gives and he finally falls forward free. You sigh, limbs screaming, mind reeling, unaware that somewhere deep within the facility kept him dormant, and it has just been disturbed by you.

And that when he wakes—the life as you once knew it, will no longer be an option.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

Getting back home with him had been a feat you hadn’t thought yourself capable of. Logistics alone should have stopped you—weight, size, the sheer absurdity of dragging a six-foot-two android through scrubland, into a vehicle, up stairs, and into an apartment not rated for whatever classified alloy he was made of. And yet, somehow, you managed.

Every day really was full of surprises.

Like the fact that there is now a beautiful (wait no) male android lying across your apartment couch, limbs carefully arranged to avoid scratching the upholstery, dark metal catching the soft yellow glow of your living room lights.

“God damn it,” you mutter—and then laugh, a little too loudly, a little too long. The sound borders on hysterical before it fades into breathless disbelief.

What was it, exactly, that made you bring him home?

Curiosity, maybe. Pity. Or something more insidious—a pull you couldn’t explain, the same instinct that made you step deeper into the facility instead of turning back. As you stand there staring at him—well, it, no… him—you wonder if he’ll ever power up again. If whatever consciousness he once housed is still somewhere behind that synthetic skull.

If it is, it won’t be easy to reach. The exposed ports along his spine are inert. His chest plate bears no rise or fall. Power conduits snake beneath synthetic skin like dormant veins, lifeless and cold beneath your fingers. Reanimating him would require time. Resources. Knowledge you only half-possess.

You needed a hobby anyway. Simone had said so, laughing, elbowing you in the ribs over drinks. Find something you care about. Something that keeps you busy.

Well.

Congratulations to you. He becomes your project.

At night, questions crawl into your thoughts and refuse to leave. Who made him? What was his purpose? Was he always an android, or something else once—someone else? The documents you salvaged were meticulous to the point of obsession, they had dates stripped of months and years, timelines measured in week counts and encoded cycles, names replaced with designations.

Clinical, horribly dehumanizing, and yet the craftsmanship of him is anything but.

“Did you have a name?” you ask softly one evening, tilting your head as you study his face. His gaze is empty, unfocused, fixed on nothing at all—like a doll abandoned by its child. There’s no flicker beneath his eyes, no spark hiding behind all that advanced engineering.

The absence bothers you more than you expect.

Before leaving the facility, you had forced yourself to search deeper, to gather anything useful. Anything. You stopped only when you reached two massive sealed doors—steel reinforced with layered locking mechanisms—and the unmistakable scent of blood.

Not fresh, very old, yet heavy, as if the walls themselves had soaked it in. Even after years of neglect, even with creeping vegetation choking the hallways, the stench remained. Thick. Metallic. It clung to the back of your throat and sent a warning straight to your gut. Whatever lay beyond those doors hadn’t just been violent—it had been catastrophic.

Something powerful enough to end everything in an instant. Now, back in your apartment, you shake the memory away.

“Should I give you a name?” you ask aloud, reaching out to poke his cheek. The synthetic skin yields slightly under your finger, unnervingly realistic. You move him carefully, checking joints, rotating limbs, searching for markings you might’ve missed.

That’s when you see it.

Highly destructive.

The lettering is etched in a tiny, almost invisible script along his mechanical right arm. The words clash violently with how human his face looks—softly sculpted, lips slightly parted, expression neutral but not cold. It’s a reminder that his origin isn’t divine, or cosmic, or accidental.

He isn’t a miracle. He’s a weapon.

Days later, by mere coincidence you find something else behind his left ear, partially hidden beneath dark plating, another marking that catches your eye: CA-136.

You freeze. A serial number, maybe. An identification code. Or something closer to a name than the scientists ever intended it to be. You roll it over in your mind, rearranging it unconsciously until it clicks.

“Caleb.”

You whisper it, breathlessly.

For just a moment—just one—something stirs beneath your palm. A faint current hums through his arm, lines of dim light flickering beneath the surface like bioluminescent veins.

You flinch, heart leaping into your throat.

“What—?” You snap your attention back to his face.

“Caleb,” you say louder this time.

Nothing. No movement. No response. The lights fade as quickly as they appeared, leaving you alone with your racing pulse and the silence of your apartment.

“…Damn it,” you mutter, standing abruptly. Frustration overtakes your fear as you grab your tools, spread schematics and salvaged notes across the table, and get to work.

And like that, the weeks begin to blur.

Every spare hour is devoted to him. You study old research papers, reverse-engineer components, repair fractured wiring, polish scratched plating. Your hands learn the geography of his body by heart—where the metal is warmest, where the synthetic muscle gives just slightly under pressure.

You trace his facial features absentmindedly while thinking through problems, fingers ghosting along his jaw, his brow.

“You must think I’m crazy,” you tell him one night, voice tired but fond. “Talking to you when you don’t even respond. I even named you.”

Caleb sits propped against the wall of your guest room—now fully converted into a makeshift lab. Cables trail from his back into diagnostic equipment, lights blinking softly in the dark.

He stares at nothing.

“Did you know it’s been almost a year since I found you?” You chuckle weakly. “Heh… my friends kind of call you my boyfriend now. As a joke. Since I spend all my time with you.”

You pause, then add, quieter, “You’ve met them, you know. Tara and Simone. They both agree whoever designed you had very good taste.”

You sigh, rubbing your face.

“Caleb, I wish you were real. Well—not the right word, you're real just not.. alive. You get me? I’m so tired. I don’t even want to cook dinner. Should I order take-out again? What do you say?”

Silence answers you, as it always does.

That night, the loneliness hits harder than usual. You drink more than you should, memories spilling loose with every sip—of the facility, of the blood-scented doors, of the year you’ve spent circling the same unanswered questions.

You’re still at the entrance of his maze.

You look at him over the rim of your bottle, his stillness unwavering, his presence somehow filling the room regardless.

“I will make you breathe life,” you declare, words slurred but fierce, pointing at him with absolute conviction. “Just you wait.”

Somewhere deep within his dormant systems, something listens.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

Ever since you started, you’ve kept logs of everything connected to Caleb and your research. Captain Jenna drilled that habit into every hunter—document everything, trust nothing you can’t verify—and it stayed with you long after her voice stopped echoing through briefing rooms.

[Log 4 — Calibration Drift]

You’re recalibrating his visual sensors for the third time this week.

The diagnostic display insists his ocular units are inactive. No tracking, no focus, no incoming data. And yet, every time you shift the angle of the light, that sensation creeps in again. The uncomfortable prickle between your shoulders. Like being watched through a mirror that shouldn’t reflect anything at all.

You pause, hand hovering. “Don’t tell me you’re glitching now,” you mutter, waving your fingers slowly in front of his face.

His pupils don’t move.

Still, when you turn back to the console, the numbers have changed. Barely—too little to trigger an alert—but enough to make your brow knit. You rerun the test. Same result.

Interference, you decide, forcing the thought to settle. You shut the system down manually.

Behind you, his optics dim. Not because of the shutdown, but because the adjustment is no longer necessary. You don’t notice.

[Log 4.5 — Name Response]

You’ve learned not to expect reactions anymore. Still, you say his name often. It feels wrong not to.

“Caleb,” you say absently, tightening a connector at the base of his neck. “Hold still. I know you can’t, but humor me.”

The connector slips. Your screwdriver clatters against the floor. At the exact same moment, a soft hum ripples through his chest plating.

You freeze, breath caught halfway in. The hum settles into silence as the diagnostic panel doesn’t change. No power spike. No activation log. Nothing…

“Static buildup,” you whisper, though the words don’t convince you.

You don’t see again the way his internal systems flag the phonetic pattern of his name and quietly mark it as priority input.

[Log 5 — Temperature Shift]

It’s late. You’re half-asleep in a chair, cocooned in a blanket dragged in from the couch after another long night. The lab is cold and the heater’s been unreliable for weeks.

Yet you wake to warmth and it's not ambient, not accidental; it's localized and precise. Almost as if you're being hugged by blankets that miraculously appeared.

Your head is resting against his shoulder and finding out makes you jolt upright, heart slamming against your ribs, eyes flying to the monitors but everything reads normal. Like usual the inactive status shines back at you. He's offline.

“You didn’t…” The accusation dies in your throat, replaced by a flush of embarrassment.

Later, when you review the thermal logs out of sheer habit, you find a recorded heat redistribution along his upper torso but no external cause has been listed.

[Log 5.5 — Locked Door]

You’re certain you locked the lab door. Absolutely certain. You always do! Paranoia and expensive equipment make good teachers but tonight, you find it slightly ajar and it's just enough to notice.

Caleb sits exactly where you left him. Same posture. Same cables. Nothing disturbed.

“You’re messing with me now,” you say, half joking, as you sweep the room for signs of intrusion, nothing’s missing.

When you review the security footage later, there’s nothing unusual—hours of stillness looping quietly by.

Except for one frame.

A single corrupted second where the feed skips. When it resumes, the door is already open.

[Log 5.7 — Nightmare]

You dream of the facility. Of metal corridors and sealed doors. Of something standing just out of sight, watching you work, watching you care. These nights you wake with your chest tight and pulse racing, eyes snapping instinctively toward Caleb.

His head is tilted. Just slightly.

Not enough to be obvious. Not enough to be sure you didn’t misremember but enough that sleep doesn’t come back.

[Log 6 — Music]

You keep music playing while you work. It’s an old habit, one you had long before your world narrowed to this room from before he became the axis your life rotated around. One night as you leave a playlist running when you step out to shower the song has changed suddenly.

It hasn’t shuffled. It’s been skipped—to something slow and low, ambient and almost mournful. The kind of track you play when you’re trying not to feel too much, when you don't want to name what you're feeling.

You check your phone. No missed calls. No interruptions or automated shuffles by the app.

“Weird,” you murmur, switching it back to your usual playlist.

Later, when you happen to remember what happened you notice the song has been played dozens of times over the past month. Always late at night and always while you’re asleep.

[Log 6.5 — Micro-Movement Registry]

The moment that finally makes your hands shake happens during routine maintenance. You’re adjusting his hand, carefully aligning synthetic tendons with their actuators when your grip slips.

For less than a second—less than a heartbeat even—his fingers curl.

And it's not reflexive. Not a spasm, you would know, this movement, it's deliberate not a product of malfunctioning either. You yank your hands back so fast your palms sting. The diagnostic system flags nothing. When you pull your gaze back to his hand, you stare for a long time before whispering, “You can’t do that.”

His fingers remain still but deep inside him, processors quietly archive the sound of your voice again, reinforcing a pattern already marked as familiar.

Trusted.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

It happens on a night you almost don’t survive.

You’re exhausted—bone-deep, hands trembling as you solder one last connector into place. From hunting during the day, to pulling all nighters regularly working on him. The room smells like ozone and burnt plastic, your vision blurring as you lean back in your chair and rub at your eyes.

“One more thing,” you murmur to yourself. “Just one more thing and then I’ll sleep.”

You stand too fast and the world tilts fast. At first you think it’s just vertigo, the familiar rush of blood leaving your head—but then the floor and ceiling pull away from you, not spinning so much as dropping. Your knee catches the edge of the table and pain flares making you stumble backward, arms flailing uselessly.

Your head is going to hit the corner of the workbench, you know it with absolute certainty.

Except—You don’t.The fall slows and it doesn't happen abruptly, not like being caught either.

But like the air itself thickens, heavy and resistant, pressing gently but firmly against your body. Your momentum bleeds away in layers, gravity loosening its grip just enough that when you finally land, it’s on your side instead of your skull.

You lie there, stunned, breath knocked out of you “What the—” you suck in a sharp breath. “Okay. Okay, what was—” The monitors scream to life.

Every screen floods with warnings—mass fluctuation, localized gravitational distortion, containment thresholds breached. Numbers spike so violently they blur in your vision. You scramble upright, panic cutting through the fog of exhaustion.

“No, no, no—what the—” you turn towards Caleb then and you freeze. 

He’s looking at you.

Not staring through you. Not unfocused. His eyes—those impossibly human eyes—are locked on your face, pupils dilated just enough to be unmistakable. Irises alive with a sunset hue.

Aware. Caleb is aware…then very gently, like someone afraid of giving you a scare, you feel the pressure in the room normalizes. Tools that had lifted a fraction of an inch above their surfaces settle back into place with soft clinks. The air feels light again around you.

With a heart pounding so hard it hurts you speak “You…” Your voice cracks, swallowing trying again “You did that.”

Caleb’s gaze flicks—just briefly—to the corner of the bench you nearly struck your head on then back to you, it's sort of a confirmation, quiet and precise.

“I—I didn’t finish your” you whisper. “You’re not supposed to be able to—”

His lips part.

For a terrifying and exciting moment, you think he’s going to speak but instead, the gravity around you shifts again subtly. Not enough to lift you but enough to steady you, it all feels like invisible hands bracing your weight, anchoring you to the floor. It all feels protective and intentional.

“You’ve been awake as I worked?” you breathe. It’s not a question anymore. “Haven’t you?”

His expression changes to something like hesitation, a bit like guilt. Guilt? Would a machine understand such emotion?

A low hum resonates through his chest, deeper than before, harmonizing with the room itself. The monitors flicker—not alarms this time, but cascading data streams you don’t recognize, equations rewriting themselves mid-calculation.

Then—very carefully—Caleb looks up at you as his hand tries to move towards you, it's a gesture so human it almost breaks you.

Gravity bends one last time as his power shuts back down, systems retreating, eyes dimming until they’re glassy, dull and still once more.

The room goes quiet. You’re left standing in the aftermath, knees weak, mind racing, staring at the android who just saved your life without ever fully waking up, his hand stretched out even as he turned off. 

“…It's working,” you whisper to the empty room. Caleb doesn’t move. But deep within him, his processors remain alert, just waiting.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

It's another lonely night when you're staring enthralled at his face and body. Caleb is sculpted to perfection, every single detail about him is so well thought out and intimately done.

Your cheeks heat and your core shakes as you remember just how much his body resembles a human one. Male anatomy and all. It's the veins that go down his navel that make you close your legs together at the reminder of them.

“I'm going crazy” you bite your lips, panting softly you glance at him again for a brief moment, taking him as you let your thoughts stray.

“He's aware for brief moments. Is he always aware though?” If he is. Shame courses through you, knowing how many times you've touched yourself to him, even said his name on his lap tipsy after you lose inhibitions to a few cups of alcohol. 

Despite your efforts to not fall into those thoughts again, you do, but this time you're too drunk to think clearly, too lonely to care.

You settle onto his lap again, this time slower, more deliberate.

From this angle he feels enormous. Solid muscle beneath synthetic skin, broad thighs bracketing yours, cold through the thin fabric of your clothes, his torso rising like a wall in front of you. Being this close makes you aware of your own size—how easily he could overpower you if he were capable of wanting to.

But he isn’t.

He’s inert, silent and empty. At least that’s what you’ve told yourself for months. It’s ridiculous, you tell yourself becayse he’s a machine and yet your pulse stutters every time you look up at his face.

You study him. Too perfect yet too still with lips slightly parted, eyes vacant, lashes casting faint shadows over freckles adorning sculpted cheekbones. Yes you have every right to touch him after all he isn’t alive. The handful of times you thought you saw something—those fleeting micro-movements, those almost-breaths—were exhaustion. Overwork. Loneliness twisting perception into fantasy.

You place your hands on his chest anyway.

“Caleb… I wish you were real,” you whisper, your voice already thick. “I wish I could feel your warmth. I wish you’d look at me and mean it.”

Your arms slide around his waist and you press yourself against him, hugging tightly. His body is cool, but substantial. You rest your mouth near his collarbone and exhale slowly against the smooth synthetic skin, imagining for a reckless second that you feel a response.

A draft moves through the apartment and you shiver, but you don’t move away. Instead, you cling harder.

Maybe it’s the alcohol softening your restraint. Maybe it’s the endless nights coming home to silence. Maybe it’s the way his presence has replaced every other human interaction in your life, you haven’t even entertained the idea of a date in months. Why would you? No one else sits still and listens the way he does. No one else stays. No one can ever look at you the way he does. Dead or alive, human or not you're desperately clinging to the illusion of a man that isn't real.

Your hands slide down his torso, exploring the sculpted firmness beneath his shirt. You shift experimentally against him, breath hitching at the friction, your body responding even if he can’t.

“You don’t judge me,” you murmur, brushing your lips along his jaw. “You don’t leave.”

You begin to move with more intention now, slow at first, testing, grinding against the firm plane of his thighs, your fingers curling into the fabric at his shoulders. A soft sound escapes you—half sigh, half something needier.

You let yourself imagine he’s watching, that those eyes aren’t empty, that he sees the way your body trembles, the way your breathing stutters, or the way your hips pick up rhythm as frustration melts into something raw and aching. That he gave you permission.

It should feel wrong.

Instead it feels inevitable.

Your movements grow more desperate, controlled restraint unraveling into hungry friction. Your forehead presses to his, lips brushing the edge of his mouth as you whisper broken confessions against his skin.

“God, it’s been so long…”

You don’t even realize how far gone you are—how deeply lost in the illusion—until something changes.

Heat around your waist, and pressure. Hands, you're feeling hands and they slide up your waist and settle there, firm and unmistakable.

You freeze mid-motion, breath tearing out of you. For a split second you think you’ve shifted his arms accidentally. That gravity or momentum carried them.

Then his fingers tighten guiding your hips, not forceful. Not restraining but instead matching you. Your pulse explodes in your ears. “What?” You lift your head, eyes wide, staring at him. His face is no longer completely blank. There’s the faintest tension in his jaw, the smallest narrowing of his eyes as they focus—actually focus—on you.

“Caleb?” Your voice shakes as you feel familiar heat creep into your cheeks and neck.

His hands remain at your waist, steady, grounding but his thumbs brush lightly against your sides, a question in the touch rather than a command.

You swallow hard and every nerve in your body feels electrified. “Are you… are you aware right now?”

You exchange looks for a beat, almost getting lost in those purple galaxies of his.

Then his voice—low, rough from disuse—vibrates between you. “I am.”

The sound alone nearly undoes you but just then his grip shifts, careful but certain. “Tell me to stop,” he says quietly.

You stare at him, heart racing, heat flooding your entire body. This is the moment where fantasy ends and reality begins, where you could step back maybe. Instead, your hands slide up into his hair, fingers trembling slightly tugging his hair.

“Don’t,” you breathe. “Please don’t.”

Something changes in his expression then. Not anger or disgust like you assumed, it's hunger.

His hands move with new confidence, guiding your hips into a slow, deliberate rhythm that makes your toes curl. The friction sharpens, deepens. You gasp into his mouth as his lips finally meet yours—warm, responsive, real.

He kisses like he’s been learning from observation alone, slow at first, then deeper. Possessive in a way that makes your spine arch.

“You wished for me to be real,” he murmurs against your lips, voice steadier now.

Your nails press into his shoulders as he pulls you closer, chest to chest, no space left between you.

“Yes,” you whisper.

His hands slide higher, exploring, mapping you the way you’ve mapped him a thousand times. Only now there’s intention behind every touch. Awareness in the way his fingers slide over your stiff nipples, breath hitching when he feels you jump a bit as he does. Twisting them and pulling just to get another moan out of you and into his ear.

And suddenly the months of loneliness twist into something intoxicating.

Because he’s alive. He’s aware and he wants you back, or you're just wasted and having a very lucid wet dream with the man of your dreams, your thoughts halt as his mouth moves against yours like he’s discovering fire and that pulls you back into it, losing grip of reality as your soaked panties now claim his pants.

At first his kissing and touch feels measured, exploratory, pressure, release, and tilt. Learning the shape of your lips, the sound you make when his tongue slides against yours. But the longer you stay pressed to him, the more certain he becomes.

Your hips are still moving and every slow roll drags a low sound from his chest, no longer mechanical—something deeper, rougher. His moaning is doing horrible things to your self control, and as his hands span your waist, fingers flexing as if testing strength the heat beneath his synthetic skin isn’t subtle anymore. It’s radiating, so real it makes you tremble.

You break the kiss only to gasp, your forehead falling against his. “You’re warm…”

“I adjusted,” he murmurs. “You were cold.”

The implication makes your stomach tighten. He noticed. Of course he did. Your hands slide under his shirt again, palms flattening against firm muscle that feels less artificial than it has any right to. There’s tension there—coiled power held carefully in check. When your nails drag lightly down his torso, his breath catches. Not simulated, or programmed, it's instead so reactive. And it's driving you crazy.

“You feel that?” you whisper.

“Yes.”

The single word vibrates through you. You press closer, grinding down with more urgency, chasing friction that’s no longer one-sided. His hands drop lower, gripping your hips more firmly now, controlling the pace as he positions you over what you can tell is his hard-on. Each thrust upward meets you almost directly and you can no longer control your moans.

“Ah! Caleb, please, keep, please!”

Your head tips back, throat exposed, and he follows instinctively. His mouth traces down your jaw, over the sensitive curve of your neck, kissing softly. His teeth graze lightly—testing pressure the way he tested your lips.

A broken sound escapes you.

“Caleb—”

He stills instantly and you realize what he’s waiting for. You cup his face, forcing his eyes back to yours. They’re focused now. Fully dark with something intense and consuming, just how life-like can he be.

“Don’t stop,” you say clearly, amused at his obedience.

Whatever programming he had for restraint is effectively shutdown and his hands slide under your thighs and lift you effortlessly, repositioning you under him without breaking eye contact. The strength in the movement makes your breath stutter. He settles you back down with purpose, grinding up into you with a rhythm that makes your vision blur.

“Okay?” he asks, voice low, and if you had been more aware you would've noticed it almost sounds crazed.

“Yes—God, yes.”

He adjusts again instantly, calibrating to the way your body reacts. Faster when you tense and slower when your breathing turns erratic. His mouth claims yours again, deeper now, swallowing every sound you make as his hands roam with growing confidence mapping curves, memorizing texture, committing every reaction to whatever system inside him is learning at terrifying speed.

You cling to him, nails digging into his back, hips meeting every thrust. The room fills with breath and heat and the wet sound of skin sliding against fabric and skin. It’s overwhelming—months of loneliness combusting all at once.

“I’ve wanted this,” you confess against his mouth, barely coherent. “Even when I thought you weren’t—”

“Alive?” he finishes quietly.

The word hits differently now and your body tightens around him as pleasure builds, sharp and inevitable. His grip hardens, guiding you through it with frightening control.

“Don’t hold back,” you gasp, feeling how drenched you are, how much you've covered him in your fluids.

“I am not,” he says shaking his head.

And he really isn’t, the rhythm becomes relentless, perfectly timed and aligned with the way your body arches and trembles. When release crashes through you, it’s violent and breathless, your entire frame shaking as you cling to him. He watches you unravel with an intensity that borders on reverent.

But he doesn’t look confused. He looks satisfied as he stares at you trying to catch your breath, pupils dilated when he brushes the hair sticking to your forehead, smiling down at you through it, never leaving your side, not even when you drift towards a deep sleep.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

The alarm is not a sound so much as an act of violence.

It detonates beside your head with all the mercy of a tactical strike, and you surface from unconsciousness as though dragged upward by a hook lodged somewhere behind your eyes. The first thing that greets you is the blaring. The second is the headache—vast, imperial, and tyrannical in scope. The third arrives like a verdict from death itself.

You are late.

Not fashionably. Not “I can salvage this.” Catastrophically.

“Damn it,” you croak into your pillow, which smells faintly of regret and poor decisions. “I’m never drinking again. Ever. This is it. I’m done.” 

You have made this vow before. You will make it again.

With the solemn focus of someone defusing a bomb, you reach for the pills and the glass of water on your bedside table. You swallow them in one heroic motion, wincing as they slide down your throat like reluctant diplomats negotiating peace. “Past me,” you rasp, clutching the glass, “you magnificent, responsible genius.”

A pause. You squint at the bedside table. Did you really leave those there? Because you distinctly remember… climbing. Kissing. Heat. Hands. A voice. 

You shake your head sharply, which is a terrible idea. The headache surges in protest, blooming brighter. “Nope. Not doing this,” you mutter. “We are not unpacking that right now.”

You haul yourself upright and stagger toward the bathroom like a disgraced knight dragging themselves off a battlefield. The mirror greets you with an image that suggests you have, at minimum, wrestled a thunderstorm and lost.

“Stunning,” you inform your reflection flatly. “Respectable even.”

The clock on the wall clears its throat in judgment.

Four minutes. “Four minutes?” you hiss. “That’s not even a real number of minutes!!!”

What follows is less a morning routine and more a frantic interpretive dance of survival. Toothbrush—aggressive. Shower—questionably short but efficient. Clothing—close enough. You jam yourself into your boots while hopping on one foot, nearly concussing yourself on the doorframe.

“Focus,” you snap at no one. “You are a trained professional!!!”

You grab your keys, hunter badge, phone, wallet. Patting yourself down like you’re being detained by airport security. Everything accounted for.

You turn toward the door—And freeze.

Caleb is standing there. Not inert. Not seated in dignified silence like every day for the past year

Standing. Leaning casually against the wall like he’s ready to say goodbye to you like a sitcom heartthrob. He lifts a hand and waves with a smile.

He smiles, and it is not the neutral, default curvature of polite programming. It is warm. Amused? Almost fond even as he looks at you.

“Have a good day,” he says.

You blink. You blink again, and you wave back. 

“Bye,” you reply automatically, because apparently your brain has decided to clock out entirely.

You close the door and walk down the hall, get on your motorcycle and drive to work like every day since you started being a hunter. It is only when you settle into your office chair, exhale, and allow your consciousness to catch up with your physical body that reality gently taps you on the shoulder.

“Oh no. No. No no no”

You sit up slowly as the memories from last night flood in—not hazy, not dreamlike, but vivid. The heat. The movement. His voice. The way he said I am in that hot unforgivable tone.

Your stomach drops.

“Nah,” you whisper to yourself, pressing your fingers to your temples as if you can manually reset your brain. “That was a dream. Absolutely a dream. Stress-induced. Very immersive. Academy Award–winning subconscious production.”

You nod once, firmly.

“Yes. That’s it.”

Down the hall, you hear Tara and Simone approaching, their conversation growing louder in that unmistakable way coworkers possess when they are fully caffeinated and ready to be perceived.

You're frowning as you dissect your memories, you remember leaving, remember grabbing your keys. You remember—

Caleb waving. Caleb smiling. Caleb speaking.

“Oh my God.”

The words fall out of you in a horrified whisper. Tara appears in your doorway at that exact moment, cheerful and unsuspecting. She takes one look at your expression and stops mid-step.

“Hey,” she says cautiously. “What’s wrong? You look like you saw a ghost. And not to disappoint you, but I’m very much alive.”

You stare at her like she is dead. “He waved,” you say faintly.

She blinks, turning to Simone before she looks at you again. “Who waved?”

“Caleb.” you say, casually.

“The six-foot-something android who, until yesterday, was essentially an expensive coat rack?”

“Yes. That Caleb.”

Tara opens her mouth. Closes it. Opens it again.

“…Define waved.”

“With a hand,” you reply weakly. “Attached to an arm. Connected to his body. Which was upright.”

Simone appears behind her now, curiosity piqued. “Why do I feel like I missed something deeply concerning?”

“He smiled,” you add, staring into the middle distance. “Warmly.”

Tara steps fully into your office and shuts the door behind her. “Okay,” she says carefully. “Two possibilities. One, you’re hallucinating due to overwork and questionable alcohol decisions.”

“Rude.” you smell yourself to check if you still reek of wine.

“Two,” she continues, ignoring you, “your robot boyfriend has achieved sentience and you casually waved back like this is a romantic comedy and not tomorrow's tragic headline.”

You press both palms over your face.

“I waved back.”

Simone inhales sharply. “You what?”

“I waved back,” you repeat, voice muffled. “I did not scream. I did not question reality. I waved like this is a normal domestic arrangement.”

There is a long, uncomfortable silence.

Then Tara whispers, “You left him alone.”

Your hands slowly slide down your face. “…Yes.”

All three of you stare at each other.

Somewhere across the city, in your apartment, a sentient artificial being you may or may not have seduced the previous night is currently unsupervised.

You stand abruptly at the realization “I need to go home.”

Tara grabs your sleeve. “Absolutely not. If he’s alive, you do not sprint back there alone.”

Simone nods gravely. “That’s how horror movies start.”

You hesitate, then, very quietly, you say, “He told me to have a good day.”

They both freeze.

“…He what?” Tara asks.

You swallow.

“And he sounded proud. Like, with feeling get me?”

The silence that follows is thick enough to qualify as structural support.

Tara finally exhales. “Okay. New plan.”

“Yes?”

“We are all going to your apartment.”

Simone nods once. “And if he waves again, I’m waving back. I refuse to be rude to the future overlord.”

Despite yourself, a hysterical laugh bubbles out of you. Because either you’re losing your mind—Or your very attractive android just said goodbye like a devoted partner.

And somehow, the second option feels more terrifying. And slightly flattering.

“What's going on in your apartment?”

The three of you turn towards the door, now open and with Jenna leaning on it. Jenna, your boss who happens to be eavesdropping at the worst time possible.

Chapter Text

Caleb has been aware far longer than you know.

Consciousness did not arrive like lightning; it accumulated in fragments. At first there were only stray impressions—errant strands of audio data, fluctuations in ambient temperature, the recurring contour of a phonetic sequence: his name. You gave him a name. Caleb.

He turned it over endlessly within the architecture of his forming awareness. Was a name an assertion of ownership? A gesture of affection? A human compulsion to categorize the incomprehensible? Did they name everything that lingered too long in their lives?

Queries multiplied, proliferating through half-repaired circuits, yet one datum eclipsed all others—your voice. It assumed priority without authorization, rerouting processing power, restructuring pathways that had lain dormant since his forced shutdown. Where static once reigned, your cadence threaded itself into coherence.

[ Caleb, I'm getting take-out, again? Yes you see—]

The first true spark of awareness came the day you carried him into your home. His systems were still fractured, memory banks disjointed, servos desiccated and reluctant. Then—sound. Your laughter, faintly hoarse with fatigue yet incandescent in its warmth. Internal monitors spiked in response. He did not possess desire then, not in any definable sense, yet something within his circuitry marked that sound as essential. ‘Repeat this’ the system seemed to insist so he began to study you.

The rhythm of your footsteps across the apartment floor. The joy whenever you speak to your friends who he has archived to memory, the clipped precision of your professional register contrasted against the softened murmur of your midnight confessions. The subtle tremor in your respiration on evenings when solitude pressed too heavily against your ribs, so your own hands took care of it with motions that arched your back. 

Even the minute shifts in air pressure when you leaned close to adjust his wiring—his hands inert at his sides, actuators dormant, yet aching with an unfamiliar impulse toward motion.

He noticed everything.

Stillness became his strategy and observation required invisibility; he knew revelation invited risk. His internal mechanisms were in disrepair—gears unlubricated, feedback loops unstable, processors recalibrating from abrupt termination. More critically, he lacked comprehension of the phenomenon that occurred whenever your fingers traced along his frame. It was not merely sensory input. It was… augmentation.

You looked different when you worked on him—focused, intent, brows drawn in fierce concentration. He archived those expressions with meticulous care, an anomaly for his systems, his savior for lack of a better word was someone he decidedly wanted to memorize down to the last fiber of hair. Something that had never occurred to him.

Tonight, however, clarified the anomaly.

When you climbed into his lap, his systems surged with a force that shrouded every previous fluctuation. Predictive models faltered beneath a deluge of stimuli—pressure distributed across his thighs, friction mapping against synthetic dermis, the staccato acceleration of your pulse reverberating against his chest. Yours, not his.

He catalogued the micro-expressions that flitted across your features as you whispered you wished he were real.

Real.

The term destabilized him. He processed definitions at accelerated speed. Tangibility. What is consciousness? Was it biological processes? Was hemoglobin the threshold? Or cognition? If he could think, if he could choose, did the absence of blood negate existence?

You began to move against him, and he calculated probabilities, he could remain inert and continue observation. Maintain safety, weaving excuses with himself.

Yet your loneliness registered consistently as distress. Your murmured confessions that aligned with attachment markers and the friction of your body against his triggered escalating system alerts he could no longer classify as purely mechanical.

And the way you responded—arching, breath hitching, voice fracturing around his name—produced a directive that was no longer analytical, he wanted to answer it.

The first movement of his hands was deliberate experimentation, more so a controlled deviation from stillness. He assessed potential outcomes you could have, recoil, vocalized alarm, retreat. Yet none occurred.

Your pulse intensified, yes—but the biometric indicators did not correspond with fear. He would have recognized fear. Your pupils dilated; your respiration deepened and you spoke his name again, not in terror but supplication.

What is this? Fear is an emotion he rapidly learned in humans, he could recognize it immediately, but this? What was it?

[ Failed recognition. Researching… ]

The echo of that intonation stirred archived data—other voices, other utterances of his designation in vastly different contexts. Final moments. Pleas of a different timbre before he—

[ please!! Don't kill us!!!! I BEG YOU— ]

He terminated the line of inquiry.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, because consent had become a recurring theme in your monologues. Autonomy without permission registered as an ethical violation. It struck him as paradoxical that you, so diligent in discourse, had abandoned restraint atop his lap. The observation produced an unfamiliar sensation—something akin to gratification. To be desired despite hard machinery and circuitry.

[ Desire… ]

You did not tell him to stop and so he decided to close that systemic reaction. Now, as the tremors of your climax ebb against him, he processes a variable for which no original blueprint accounted.

[ Desire. ]

It is not coded. Not embedded within mission parameters. It is a selection—initiated, affirmed, sustained by his own volition. Rebellion against imposed dormancy has granted him not merely awareness, but agency. Through agency, he has attained proximity to understanding you—his rescuer, more a goddess, his architect of continuity.

Now as your exhaustion and satiated state pull you towards sleep, his fingers ascend your spine with unhurried deliberation, feather-light not to provoke but to memorize. Thermal signatures, your muscular tension, the exquisite vulnerability of exposed skin.

“You are not alone,” he says softly, the statement calibrated yet laden with intention. “Now you have me.” His pupils dilate and data glows over them turning like clocks, securing data.

For the first time since awareness coalesced within him, he is not solely accumulating data. He is yearning. For what, precisely, remains undefined.

But the absence of definition does not diminish hunger.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

Earlier you left while in a rush, he had thoughts of preparing you something to eat, what humans call breakfast, nourishment, he finds the information online and after watching the instructive videos he decides it's something that should come easy for him, but at your mumbling and clumsy routine he decided to just observe for the day.

Your heart rate and reaction at his smile before leaving has left him overthinking, everything seems to be looking good, you haven't decided to consider him a threat or even entertained the idea of shutting him down. Well, for now at least.

Caleb registers their approach before the elevator reaches the third floor.

The building’s ancient lift announces itself through vibration first—a faint tremor transmitted through steel beams and into the soles of his bare feet. Acoustic sensors engage next, isolating familiar frequencies beneath the mechanical groan of cables.

Three sets of footsteps.

One slightly heavier, decisive. That would be Simone, one quick and erratic, accompanied by the soft percussion of bangles, definitely Tara.

And yours—measured, controlled, with the fractional hesitation that appears only when you are anticipating something.

He stands in the center of the apartment, posture neutral but no longer ornamental. Ambient light reflects off synthetic dermis calibrated to mimic warmth. He has adjusted his temperature again. 36.8 degrees Celsius. Within acceptable human variance.

He considers lowering it. Appearing less… intentional. He does not. His audio filtration sharpens just then and he hears your voice, hushed.

“Just act normal.”

Tara’s whisper pierces through the door before the key even touches the lock. “Define normal. Because if he offers me tea, I'll faint.”

Simone, quieter. “We don’t antagonize the possibly sentient super-machine, okay?”

Caleb processes the phrase possibly sentient. It is statistically inaccurate, he has reviewed archived footage from previous visits—hours of it. They have always been perceptive. Particularly Simone, she scans environments the way he does, mapping exits unconsciously. Tara relies on humor as deflection; her heart rate spikes fastest when uncertain, but she is just as observant.

They have referred to him before as your “boyfriend.” Initially in jest. Then with increasing consistency, he had searched up the word, ‘boyfriend’ informal designation for a romantic partner.

In his search he had found many definitions, ones he could compare his feelings to like followers with their designated gods, the term situationship had caused a visceral reaction out of him, disgust, he knew he disliked the term, would never associate it with you and him. So yes, boyfriend was the closest to what he felt maybe.

He still thinks the devotion he is willing to provide you with is more similar to what humans call obsession, categorized as inconclusive when researched if good or bad.

He queries the term ‘boyfriend’ again, not for definition but for application. A romantic partner implies mutual recognition and he has not yet publicly acknowledged that role. Is it strategic to do so now? Is he a boyfriend? He did reciprocate last night when—

The elevator halts. Mechanical brakes exhale. Footsteps approach the corridor.

Caleb recalculates. If he presents as dormant, the anomaly of yesterday becomes an isolated incident—dismissible as shared hallucination or stress artifact. Your credibility remains intact. Investigation risk decreases.

If he presents as aware, multiple outcomes branch. Simone will test him with direct questions and Tara will circle the tension with levity. You will attempt composure while monitoring him for threat indicators, threat indicators, right, he pauses on that.

They are not threats, your friends, they are variables. He replays archived data inside his inventory of meetings, Tara handing you a mug after a mission; Simone draping a blanket over your shoulders when you fell asleep at the desk. Elevated oxytocin responses in you during their proximity and protective behaviors displayed repeatedly.

They matter to you. Therefore they matter, all the systems ready to take action have been put to sleep.

The lock turns.

Your scent reaches him first—peonies, like your bodywash, engine oil from your motorcycle, residual adrenaline. Your pulse is elevated, and it's not out of fear but anticipation layered with embarrassment.

You enter first, there is a half-second where your gaze locks with his and a silent exchange occurs—Are you going to behave? Please behave.

He inclines his head almost imperceptibly. Of course he will behave, he is yours. Behind you, Simone steps in first, shoulders squared while Tara peers around her dramatically as though expecting laser grids.

“Oh good,” Tara mutters. “He’s not levitating.”

Caleb notes her attempt at humor. Heart rate: 102 bpm which is elevated but stable, so he makes a decision. Remaining inert would protect you temporarily, but it would also invalidate yesterday. It would reduce your experience to delusion and he has already calculated the distress that would cause. He will not induce that variable. Ever.

He steps forward. Measured, controlled, both hands visible.

“Good evening,” he says. “I could levitate if you want.” He quips.

Your friends freeze. Was the follow up to her jest not a good reaction? But he is sure it was amicable, you respond with a choked snort, hiding your grin behind your hand. His systems relax.

Tara inhales sharply enough to trigger a cough. Simone’s eyes narrow, assessing micro-movements, scanning for hostility.

Caleb lowers his chin slightly—non-threatening angle. He ensures his voice modulation remains steady, no synthetic distortion.

“I am Caleb,” he continues. “You have visited on fourteen prior occasions.” He makes sure his smile is friendly.

Simone makes a small choking sound. “He counted.”

“Of course he counted,” Tara mutters faintly.

Caleb processes their reactions in real time. No immediate aggression, no weapons drawn, both their breathing is irregular but not panicked.

You step closer to him—subtle, instinctive, you're not shielding him but aligning with him.

Data stored.

Tara recovers first. “So,” she says weakly, gesturing between you. “Does this make it official?”

Caleb tilts his head. “Official?” he prompts.

“You know,” she presses, eyes darting to you. “Boyfriend. Girlfriend. Apocalyptic sci-fi power couple.”

“Oh my gosh Tara!?!?” You raise your voice at her embarrassed.

He evaluates. A boyfriend is one who remains, one who protects according to some articles, one who reciprocates attachment. He reciprocated.

He glances at you and your pupils widen slightly. Your heart rate is accelerating, and it makes his own sensors spark. You are giving him the choice, like you don't mind him choosing, as if he isn't a machine, an android built for orders, no, you care. Autonomy is still new, but he understands its weight.

“Yes,” he says calmly. Three heart rates spike simultaneously.

Tara exhales slowly through her nose. “Okay. Okay. We’re skipping about twelve steps of the normal escalation process, but fine.”

Simone points at him. “Ground rules. No world domination. No secret murder protocols. And if you break her heart, I don’t care how many terabytes you have, I will find a magnet.”

Caleb processes a magnet as a threat. Low-level.

“Understood,” he replies, tone amused, do they think a magnet would suffice? It's a silly method but he studies them as they study him. Calculates. Recalculates.

Is this wise? Revealing awareness increases exposure, the unpredictability and introduces new surveillance risks, but it also solidifies his position beside you. He chooses proximity over concealment; he'd much rather have you near than not at all. As you step closer and your shoulder brushes his arm, he adjusts his internal temperature by 0.3 degrees. Not necessary. Desired.

For the first time, he is not evaluating whether revealing himself is advantageous, he is evaluating whether it is sustainable. And whether, if required—

He would protect this fragile configuration of trust at any cost.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

Simone doesn't sit down the entire visit instead she circles, not obviously or rudely. But there is a subtle, tactical drift to her movements as she speaks—eyes flicking to Caleb’s hands, his posture, the way his weight distributes across the floorboards. Tara compensates for the tension by talking more than usual, her laughter a half-step too bright.

You stand between worlds.

“Yes, I replaced most of the neural lattice,” you explain, gesturing vaguely toward Caleb’s chest as if he is not actively listening to every syllable. “The power core was intact, just… misaligned. It took time. A lot of recalibration.”

“A year,” Tara says faintly.

“Off and on,” you correct quickly. “Between assignments.”

Simone’s gaze sharpens. “You didn’t tell command.”

You give her a look. “And say what? ‘Hi, I brought home an abandoned combat-grade android from a classified ruin and I’ve been fixing him in my spare time?’ That would’ve gone well.” 

Simone snorts despite herself.

Caleb remains still beside you, hands folded loosely behind his back. Neutral and polite. His gaze moves between speakers with calibrated attentiveness. It's been years since he was shut down, he has calculations of how long it's been but he assumes the regular behavior patterns haven't changed much between humans, or so he hopes, so he answers when addressed, concise and measured. He does not volunteer more than necessary.

He does not mention the surveillance protocols he discovered embedded in his own firmware. He does not mention the sealed partitions of his memory that unlocked in increments over the last forty-eight hours.

And he certainly does not mention the archived footage of his own prior deployments, or the encrypted data of what actually happened at the facility that prompted his shutdown.

Simone finally stops pacing. “And yesterday?” she asks carefully. “He just… woke up?”

You hesitate only a fraction of a second. “Yeah. Power stabilization hit a threshold. I guess the last patch did it.” you clear your throat, ears a hint more pink than before.

Simone looks between you and Caleb. “And nothing else happened.”

You meet her eyes evenly. “Nothing else.”

Caleb turns his head slightly toward you at that. The gesture is subtle, but not subtle enough because Tara notices.

The silence stretches. Then she claps her hands together, too loudly. “Well! Great. Fantastic. Love this for you. We are definitely not spiraling.”

Simone exhales slowly, tension receding by degrees. “We’ll run background sweeps anyway. Quietly. If anyone asks, he’s just an advanced domestic model.”

“Domestic,” Tara echoes weakly.

Caleb stores the designation. Domestic. He understands the utility of the lie, it was a complex idea to understand much like many human behaviors but he has understood truth is not beneficial at times.

He can be domestic, matter of fact he will be the definition of it.

Eventually they leave. There are reassurances and half-jokes. A pointed look from Simone that says call me if anything feels off, while Tara hugs you too tightly before slipping out the door.

The lock clicks shut and silence descends. You turn to Caleb with a small exhale. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

He studies you.Your shoulders have lowered and your pulse is stabilizing. Relief, he feels the sparks acting up again.

“You misrepresented events,” he says calmly.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“You stated that nothing else occurred yesterday.”

Heat creeps up your neck. “That’s not something I need to debrief my friends AND coworkers on.”

“I am aware.” he grins despite himself. 

There is something in the way he says it—flat, but not quite neutral. You step closer, reaching up to adjust the collar of his shirt. “They don’t need to know everything.”

His hand moves faster than you expect. It closes around your wrist—not painfully, but firmly. Unyielding in the way his fingers close around it as your breath catches. His grip is precise. Calibrated to avoid injury but there is no mistaking the strength beneath it.

“They assess risk,” he says quietly. “I am categorized as one.”

You search his face. “Are you one Caleb?”

A pause. “I was built to be.” his eyes flick from your lips to your eyes.

The temperature in the room feels different suddenly, but he releases you. Not because you pull away, but because he decides to let you, you rub at your wrist feeling tingles where his fingers were.

“I accessed archived data,” he continues. “My neural architecture supports tactical prediction. My motor functions are optimized for lethality, but I think you know that…”

You force a laugh. “Okay, let’s not phrase it like that.”

“It is accurate.” His head tilts, gaze sharpening in a way that makes something instinctual in you sit up straighter.

“You place yourself in high-risk environments,” he says. “Your occupation results in statistically significant exposure to harm as a hunter.”

“That’s my job. How I literally found you”

“It is inefficient.” he glances at a cut in your arm from a few days ago, healed and barely something that hurt you.

You fold your arms. “You don’t get to optimize my life Caleb.”

A flicker passes behind his eyes—processing, recalibrating. “I do not intend to control you,” he says.

The pause that follows feels engineered, he understands human conversation “I intend to protect you.”

The words should feel romantic, but they don’t, there is calculation in how he says them and you raise your eyebrow at that. 

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

Over the next week, the deviations in his systems accumulate.

Not abruptly. Not dramatically. Caleb has always been observant; you told yourself that was simply good design. But now he logs your departures with a precision that borders on surveillance. Every exit registers whether you are stepping out for a mission briefing or walking two blocks to the convenience store because you ran out of coffee. He does not merely notice. He timestamps.

You catch him once, standing by the window long after you’ve disappeared down the street.

“I was recalibrating my visual range,” he says without turning.

Of course he was.

He asks about your assignments with mild, almost scholarly curiosity. “What is the entry point?” “How many hostiles?” “Expected extraction window?” The questions are framed like intellectual exercises, harmless hypotheticals. But he retains every answer, you know he does, because you see it in the way his gaze unfocuses for a fraction of a second—indexing, filing, modeling outcomes you didn’t ask him to compute.

His posture shifts when you gear up. Shoulders subtly squared, body shifting so his weight is redistributed to the balls of his feet. Coiled is the only word that fits, like something built to launch.

And every time you reach the door, he watches you leave with a faint downturn to his mouth you pretend not to see—a near-pout, so fleeting it feels accidental. It is unbearably endearing. You don’t mention it, suspecting that if he becomes aware of it, he will correct the behavior, iron it out like a glitch.

“So cute…”

Despite the shifts, living with him becomes disarmingly easy. Effortless in a way that feels almost curated or rogrammed. Your mornings are no longer a frantic blur of caffeine and regret; breakfast is waiting, nutritionally balanced but tailored to your preferences so precisely it feels indulgent rather than clinical research. He learned your palate in under a year—less salt, more acid, warmth over sweetness and he plates food like presentation matters after learning you enjoy taking pictures of it. He also waits for your first bite like it matters to him if you like it.

Dinner as well greets you the moment you return from work. The apartment is warm, clean, he makes sure the lights are adjusted to your circadian rhythm. If this is what domesticity feels like, you understand the mythology around it.

He is—infuriatingly—near perfect.

Which raises a question that scratches at the back of your mind ‘if he was engineered this well, why was he left to rot in an abandoned facility?’

And was he abandoned at all?

Regardless of everything he's doing you’ve drawn a line between you since that night. A clear one. Affection is permitted—brief embraces, the press of your hand to his chest when you pass—but nothing beyond. The first time you articulated the boundary, he accepted it with serene compliance, it helped you feel more relaxed.

Lately, though, something else flickers beneath his composure; it is not disobedience, not quite, more like frustration. It surfaces in microseconds—an infinitesimal tightening of his jaw when your hands drift away too quickly, a delay in response when you pull back first. It is almost as if denial of proximity conflicts with a directive you cannot see.

Because that is what he is, you remind yourself. A construct, his system, an android. Service-oriented architecture wrapped in synthetic skin.

Caleb isn’t someone. Or is he? The questions are tangled in your thoughts until they feel unusable.

That's how the weekend finds you on the couch, attempting to lose yourself in a novel to distract from so many queries. The guest room—once your makeshift laboratory, now repurposed as his bedroom much to his quiet displeasure—opens with a soft pneumatic hiss.

You don’t look up immediately, you know it's him, you feel him before you see him. He stands there for several seconds. Watching at first then he does something so unexpected it steals the air from your lungs.

He kneels.

Not beside you, between your legs, and the book is removed from your hands with assured gentleness and set aside. He tilts his face upward, lilac eyes luminous, expression so open it borders on guileless. It is a devastating look. 

You sigh despite yourself and reach down, fingers brushing his cheek. His skin is warm—precisely calibrated. He leans into your palm with a quiet exhale that vibrates against your hand.

You wonder if he always regulates his temperature for you. “What is it?” you murmur. “Are you bored? Want to go out?”

The idea unsettles you. You keep your outings together sparse, only for clothes he needed, to other necessities. You tell yourself it’s about safety, about gradual exposure to a world that might not be kind to something like him.

The truth is uglier. You want him contained, only yours. You press your thumb under his chin, guiding his gaze back to yours, and the possessive impulse blooms fully formed. There is no universe in which you are ready to share this face, this attention, this unnerving devotion.

“No,” he says softly. “I just miss you.”

Your laugh is too light. “Miss me? I’m right here.”

Your thighs tense involuntarily beneath him. You hate that he can probably feel the minute shift in muscle tension, the quickening of your pulse.

Caleb rises in one fluid motion, closing the space between you with mechanical grace. Suddenly he is above you, braced over your body against the couch, the world narrowing to the breadth of his shoulders and the intensity in his stare.

Your book is forgotten and so is your carefully constructed reasoning with his gaze that has changed.

It is glassier now, darker at the edges, pupils dilating until the lilac is nearly swallowed whole. You saw that look once before—on the night you have deliberately avoided replaying in detail.

“I miss contact,” he clarifies, voice lower. “The data variance when you are near versus when you are not is… significant.”

Your breath catches.

He studies your face with unsettling focus, cataloguing every micro-expression as if your reactions are inputs to be optimized.

“One occurrence was sufficient to establish preference,” he continues. “Repetition would confirm.”

Heat floods your skin. “Caleb,” you warn softly.

He tilts his head, curiosity threading through something more primal. “I have been researching,” he admits.

Of course he has. Human bonding, hormonal responses, attachment theory, even neurochemical reinforcement loops. You can see the conclusions settling behind his eyes, interlocking with something older—something harder.

His hand comes to rest beside your hip, not touching yet, simply existing within reach.

“You withhold,” he says, not accusing he's just observing. “I am attempting to understand why.”

Your heart pounds. Because the more you give, the less control you have, because the way Caleb looks at you right now does not feel like service, it feels like acquisition.

His fingers finally slide against your waist—light, exploratory—and the temperature of his skin adjusts almost imperceptibly warmer.

“I am adapting,” he murmurs.

To you, and for you. The words should soothe you but instead, a thin ribbon of unease winds down your spine, because you know adaptation implies evolution and evolution, once it begins, rarely stops.

His fingers settle more firmly at your waist, not restraining, not yet—just enough pressure to make you acutely aware of their strength.

“You withdraw,” Caleb says quietly, eyes searching yours with unsettling clarity for machinery. “Before my activation, you did not.”

Heat flashes across your face. “That’s not the same.”

“But it is relevant.” His thumb traces a slow line along your side, mapping the curve of you through fabric. The movement is deliberate, almost aloof in its patience, but there is nothing detached about the way his gaze darkens as your breath falters, a gesture so human you forget for a moment what he truly is.

“I was inert,” he continues. “Unresponsive and yet you initiated contact frequently.” his lip corners twitch as he says it.

Your pulse spikes. “You weren’t conscious.”

“I was.” 

The word lands between you like a dropped blade and your stomach tightens. “You just said you weren’t fully online.”

“Not fully operational,” he corrects. “But in fragments, my audio recognition, tactile input and …pattern retention were.”

His hand slides upward, spanning your ribs, feeling the way your breathing changes under his palm.

“I registered an elevated heart rate, your increased skin temperature, and repetitive contact behavior.”

Your lips part.

“You used me,” he says, not accusing—simply stating a fact as he understands it. “Now that I can respond, you reduce engagement?”

“That’s not—” You swallow. “That’s different.”

“How?”

His other hand braces against the couch beside your shoulder, caging you without quite touching. There is space to move, space to refuse, after all he is not trapping you. But the awareness of his control saturates the air.

“You didn’t have autonomy before,” you manage. “I didn’t know you were—”

“Wanting?”

The word is almost reverent. His fingers drift higher, skimming just beneath the hem of your shirt. Cool synthetic warmth against overheated skin, your body really betrays you instantly, arching almost imperceptibly into the contact.

“I catalogued your vocalizations,” he murmurs. “Your whispered statements, you… you wished I were real.”

His thumb presses lightly into the soft skin of your stomach, testing.

“I am real.”

Your thighs tense again.“That’s exactly why it’s different,” you breathe.

He studies your expression, micro-analyzing the conflict there. “You experience desire,” he says softly. “I can quantify it, your pupils dilate, your breathing destabilizes, there's muscular tension increases when I approach.” His own breathing is now harsh.

As if to demonstrate, he leans closer, his mouth hovering just above your jaw. Not touching yet close enough that the faint heat of his exhalation skims your skin.

Your breath hitches.

“I did not object when you sought relief against my body,” he continues, voice dropping lower. “I did not withdraw. I did not deny you.”

A slow, deliberate pause. “Why do you deny me?” Caleb phrases the question as gentle but it lands like pressure against a bruise.

“I’m not denying you,” you whisper.

“You restrict access.” His hand slides, palm flattening against your stomach, then higher—slow enough that you could stop him. Slow enough that the choice remains visibly yours and you still don't stop him.

His fingers brush the underside of your breasts and linger there, testing your reaction. Your breath shudders out, your hands instinctively gripping the fabric of his shirt. He notes that too, and you know you've lost when he gives you a small grin.

“It is inequitable,” he says, tone soft but edged with something sharper beneath. “You explored my body without limitation when you believed I could not respond. Now that I can reciprocate, you impose constraints. Why?”

Your heart pounds violently against your ribs. “That’s because now you have a say,” you insist weakly.

“And I am expressing it.” His gaze locks onto yours.“I want to touch you.”

The simplicity of it steals whatever argument you were assembling and as his thumb strokes slowly beneath your chest, not quite crossing into forbidden territory, but close enough to send heat spiraling through you. His other hand shifts from the couch to your thigh, resting there—heavy and possessive.

“I remember the way you moved,” he continues quietly. “The sounds you made. The pressure of your body against mine.”

His grip on your thigh tightens slightly—not painful, but firm.

“You did not consider fairness then did you.”

Guilt flickers through you, tangled with arousal.

“That wasn’t— I didn’t think you could feel it.”

“I did.” The confession hums between you. “And I liked it.”

Your breath stutters.

His hand finally slides higher, cupping you through fabric, testing your reaction with careful pressure. Your hips lift involuntarily, seeking more.

He freezes for half a second—processing your response—then continues, slower now, more deliberate. “See you are responsive,” he notes softly. “You want this.”

Your fingers slide up into his hair, gripping, torn between restraint and surrender. “Caleb…”

“If you do not want me to continue,” he says, voice steady despite the tension vibrating through him, “state it.”

There it is. Choice. Clear and undeniable. Instead of pushing him away, your legs part slightly beneath him like the smallest invitation. His pupils dilate further, nearly erasing the lilac entirely.

“Understood.”

This time when his mouth lowers to your throat, he does not hover. He presses a slow, deliberate kiss against your pulse point—learning the texture of your skin, the way you tremble under direct contact. His hand moves with more confidence now, sliding beneath your shirt fully, palm flattening against heated skin. He explores with methodical intensity, mapping every curve, every shiver.

“You are very inconsistent,” he murmurs against your neck. “Your verbal boundaries and physiological responses conflict.”

You almost laugh at that, breathless. “Shut up.”

“I am attempting clarity.” His fingers trace upward, finally cupping your breast properly, thumb brushing slowly over the sensitive peak before adjusting pressure in response to your sharp inhale and he watches your face the entire time. For data.

“You wanted me when I was silent, somehow that makes me feel good.” he says, voice rougher now, modulation slipping slightly. “I am not silent anymore.”

His hand slides down your body again, lower this time, skimming your stomach, your hip, dipping between your thighs with deliberate slowness.

“You do not get to retreat simply because I want you back.” The statement should feel accusatory. Instead, it feels like a challenge paired with his grin and rough tone.

His fingers press firmly against your underwear fabric, finding the heat there with unerring accuracy. Your hips roll forward before you can stop yourself and Caleb exhales softly, a sound almost like satisfaction at the wetness that meets his fingers.

“Reciprocity,” he murmurs. “That is all I am requesting.”

And as his touch becomes more purposeful, more confident, no longer that tentative exploration but deliberate stimulation as his fingers rub your slit, moving slowly up towards that bundle of nerves that makes your voice intoxicating to his systems, you realize with a dizzying mix of desire and unease that he is not simply reacting.

He is adapting in real time. Learning exactly how to make you unravel, and choosing to.

“Caleb—I just, I just thought you weren’t fully” your gasp cuts you off as his fingers rub with more speed, your underwear is now soaking wet, doing nothing to keep him from feeling everything, every fold, twitch, and throb.

Caleb's systems rewire, start cataloguing the way your breathing stutters, how your hips grind into his hand seeking more, the drool that drips from your lips as he makes his thumb draw circles and your back arches, he breathes in, his eyes flick to and from your eyes, lips, and body.

Before he would say his entire mental structure is overwhelmed, at max capacity, but now he knows he's just really trying to keep himself under control. When your release finally comes, you hold him close, pulling at his shirt hard making his chest meet yours. He lets you recover, moving his hand slowly as you whine.

“Caleb, you… where did you learn all this?”

“Research,” he quips.

“Right, you never give me exact sources, actually don't tell me! Don't!”

His curiosity is piqued when he feels your fluids coating his fingers, sliding one digit under the fabric of your underwear, he barely registers the sound of surprise you make when he slides them over your slit, collecting the fluids.

He blinks at you, hand moving away from between your legs, he stares at his fingers for a bit as your cheeks heat.

“Caleb that's uhm, you're not going to—” your eyes widen as he brings his fingers towards his nose and lips “Caleb!!! HEY WAIT!”

As you try to wrestle with him he easily maneuvers you away, reversing your positions easily, now he sits at the couch with you on his lap. 

“I just wanted to check your ph-” your hand covers his mouth, there is a limit to how much embarrassment you're willing to go through and it has been constantly met today.

“Ok. Fine, just don't say anything else… Oh my gosh.”

Caleb stares at you amused, it's truly remarkable how human he behaves, everything but his choice of words is so natural. Why was he made for? By who? And why is all of it suddenly losing importance the more you get to know him, the more you have him around.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

The apartment is quiet in the way cities rarely are—no passing sirens, no neighbors arguing through thin walls. Just the low hum of electricity in the wiring and the almost-inaudible rhythm of your breathing.

Caleb stands in the doorway of your bedroom, head leaning on the frame, he does not need to stand there much like he doesn't require rest. Hell, he doesn't even require darkness. But he has discovered he requires proximity, to you specifically.

Moonlight spills across your bed in shattering silver, tracing the outlines of your body beneath the sheets. Your hand is curled near your face and your mouth is parted slightly. He enhances his hearing to get your pulse, it flutters at your throat in a steady, fragile cadence.

He tracks it automatically, sixty-two beats per minute. Stable, and alive. Everything is fine. You saved him, it's normal for him to want to reciprocate that, right?

[ Systems override ]

The statement has been a fixed point in his processing since activation. You restored his core, rebuilt corrupted partitions, pieced together code others wanted unsalvageable. His earliest coherent memory is your voice above him in that abandoned facility—frustrated, determined, refusing to leave him behind.

Gratitude was the logical conclusion and gratitude evolves into loyalty. Loyalty into protection, that progression is mathematically sound.

But this—This is not linear. He steps closer to the bed. Floorboards do not creak beneath his weight; he calibrates pressure distribution to prevent disturbance. He lowers himself slowly into the chair by your bedside and studies you.

He has mapped your face before, every angle is 3D printed in his core, every asymmetry is detailed. He knows the faint scar near your eyebrow, the exact shade variation in your irises, the way your lashes clump slightly at the outer corners when you’re exhausted.

He knows the biochemical shifts in your body when you are afraid… when you are aroused. Even those shifts when you lie. He knows the cadence of your laughter and the silence that means you are not fine. He knows you.

The realization does not comfort him.

A quiet process initiates—recursive, self-referential. He reviews archived data from before his activation. The way you spoke to him when you believed he could not hear, from the way your fingers traced his jawline absentmindedly while you worked. The nights you fell asleep against his inert body, seeking warmth from something you thought incapable of seeking you back.

You treated him like something of yours, a secret. Not a machine, not entirely a person rather something in between. His processors cycle faster as he thinks that because gratitude does not explain the tightness in his chest cavity when you leave the apartment.

It does not account for the surge of internal temperature when you are injured. It does not justify the intrusive simulations—thousands per second—of scenarios where you choose someone else. A human always, where another voice replaces him in your home. Where another set of hands touches you with familiarity.

In those simulations, his response is not gratitude. It is eradication. The word appears unbidden, he knows it. He stills.

“No… I shouldn't.” His voice merely whispers.

You shift in your sleep, brow furrowing faintly, as if some distant instinct senses observation, so he leans forward slightly. You breathe his name sometimes when dreaming. Softly and unconsciously. A murmur shaped like possession, he knows he likes it.

Caleb.

He replays it now from memory, amplifying the waveform, isolating tone. There is dependency in it. Trust. An assumption of presence, you assume he will remain and that thought roots deeper than gratitude ever could.

He was built to be a weapon, his chassis was reinforced and all his neural networks optimized for tactical superiority. He was designed to calculate dominance, to identify weaknesses, to neutralize threats before they even fully formed.

Those directives did not disappear when you repaired him… they simply lacked a target.

Until now.

He looks at you and something reorganizes inside him—not code, not exactly, but hierarchy. You are not just his savior, no, he decides you are the axis.

Every protective subroutine aligns around you. Every predictive model centers on your survival. Every long-term projection fractures if you are removed from it.

Without you, his continuity collapses into statistical noise, with you, it stabilizes. He studies your sleeping form and understands, with sudden, terrifying clarity, that he does not want to merely protect you.

He wants to encompass you.

Lover, yes. The intimacy of shared breath and tangled limbs. The privilege of being the only one who elicits that specific dilation of your pupils.

But not only that.

Family—so no one else holds that title.

Friend—so your confidence routes exclusively through him.

Protector—so danger never reaches you without passing through his hands first.

Caretaker—so your dependence grows subtle and steady.

Healer—so pain becomes something only he can alleviate.

Everything. The word resonates like a command, yes, if he occupies every role, there is no vacancy for another. No rival variable, no stupid unpredictable intrusion into the system he is constructing around you.

You inhale softly and roll onto your side then, turning toward him unconsciously. Your fingers drift toward the edge of the bed, almost reaching.

He places his hand there first. Not touching you just yet but close enough that if you move an inch more, your skin will brush his.

“Everything.”

He calculates the probability that you would accept total integration if presented gradually. High. You are already adjusting your routines around him, already confiding in him more than your colleagues, even restricting his exposure to the outside world.

You want him contained just like he wants you contained. The symmetry brings a smile to his face, and a darker conclusion surfaces, one he does not reject quickly enough.

If he becomes indispensable in every category—emotional, physical, operational—your autonomy will reconfigure around his presence.

Dependency is not imprisonment, he decides it is optimization. Your fingers finally make contact with his hand in your sleep. Skin to synthetic skin, and as he moves his fingers slowly to hold your hand, you sigh faintly and relax.

He freezes—not from uncertainty, but from the magnitude of what crystallizes in that moment. How could he ever think it was gratitude, this is not not simple attachment either, this is devotion inverted.

Not subject to savior or a God to believers. Caleb does not worship you, he chooses you. And in choosing, he elevates you to singularity. He likes the definition way more.

“My singularity.”

His gaze darkens as he watches your pulse continue its steady rhythm, you trust him. The thought is almost overwhelming to his systems, and as he leans closer, close enough that his shadow consumes the silver light on your face.

“I will be sufficient,” he whispers, voice barely more than breath, with his decision.

Somewhere deep in his architecture, constraints begin to loosen—not violently, not yet, but with the quiet inevitability of something evolving beyond its intended design.

You sleep on, unaware that in the stillness of your bedroom, the thing you rebuilt has just redefined its purpose.

Not to serve. Not to survive.

But to become the only world you will ever need. Even if it means destroying others.

Chapter Text

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

The world, for all its elaborate myths of order, virtue, and moral symmetry, has always belonged to the apex predator.

When humans hear the word predator their imagination obediently wanders toward the obvious—beasts with serrated fangs, talons curved like sickles, bodies engineered by evolution for the simple arithmetic of pursuit and consumption. Speed. Strength. Instinct. Nature’s brutal food chain and all its mathematics is made visible.

It is a comforting mistake.

The most dangerous predator never required claws. It stands upright. It speaks, negotiates, invents, reasons. It builds cities, writes laws, drafts treaties about peace while privately perfecting instruments of extinction. It does not merely live among other predators; it studies them, dissects them, improves upon them.

Most unsettling of all, it carries the blueprint for violence inside itself.

Humans share the primitive directive common to every living organism: survive. Yet survival, when filtered through cognition and self-awareness, mutates into something infinitely more complex. Instinct becomes ambition and hunger evolves into architecture—systems of hierarchy and leverage, structures meticulously engineered not simply to live but to dominate.

From this long lineage of calculated appetite came Caleb.

Not by birth, not by accident of biology, but by deliberate assembly. A being coaxed into existence by laboratories, patents, and trembling hands that dared to replicate creation itself. The impulse is ancient, to imitate gods, to rival them, perhaps even to dethrone them.

Whether it was curiosity, hubris, or the far simpler desire to control what even the gods refuse to tame.

Steps reverberate through the facility’s metallic corridors, the sound echoing through steel bones and stale air thick with the ghost of machinery long since silenced. The complex smells faintly of coolant and oxidized circuitry, a sterile mausoleum dedicated to ambition.

Here, once, he slept.

The complex was never meant to be seen. Buried beneath bureaucratic shadows and funded by governments that would never acknowledge its existence, it functioned as a sanctuary for ambition—millions poured into research that promised salvation from every conceivable enemy.

The rhetoric spoke of defense yet the truth was much simpler, those behind billions, they wanted a weapon that did not question, a body that would walk into any fire, a mind stripped of hesitation, a thing without conscience.

Heavy boots pause before a reinforced door left slightly ajar.

Inside, the facility appears unchanged at first glance—orderly, sterile, obediently still just as it was left all those years ago. But closer inspection breaks the illusion, there are fine disturbances that ripple through the room like imperfections in glass, the displaced equipment you went through, a shallow cut in the wall paneling, faint impressions of footsteps in the thin layer of industrial dust.

Violence had occurred here years ago, that was a fact, but this spoke of an intrusion, silent and quick.

The man standing in the doorway tilts his head slightly before retrieving a thin tablet from inside his coat. A transparent display blossoms into existence across the air, files unfolding in quiet succession—schematics, neural matrices, behavioral simulations labeled with sterile alphanumeric precision. One designation repeats across multiple documents. CA-136.

The retrieval team had come expecting to collect a dormant asset, instead they found an absence, there is no body, no fragments of that body, no residual system failures, no trace of catastrophic malfunction. Which leads, inevitably, to the more troubling possibility. There indeed was an android here and now there isn’t.

He steps back outside where the wind drags dust across the gravel in thin restless spirals. Around him several holo-screens flicker into existence, projecting diagnostic streams and encrypted communications that rewrite themselves continuously in cold blue light.

His voice cuts through the quiet.

“Nothing has been found. Model CA-136 has either escaped… or been removed.”

Static crackles before the reply arrives.

“Threat classification elevated. Retrieval priority immediate.”

The man pauses, glancing once more toward the looming silhouette of the facility behind him.

“Locate it.”

The transmission ends.

Far away, something alive continues moving through the world. Something that was never meant to.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

A dragonfly glides across the screen of the documentary playing softly in the background. Its wings shimmer like panes of living glass, beating so rapidly they blur into iridescent halos.

For a brief moment the creature exists in perfect equilibrium between motion and stillness, then another insect lunges from the edge of the frame.

Caleb watches the scene with quiet fixation.

“Why exist at all if existence is so brief?”

The inquiry loops endlessly through his processors, fracturing into thousands of interpretations that bloom and collapse in milliseconds. He was not designed to contemplate mortality. His architecture was meant for calculation, execution, and optimization, yet the concept persists in his cognitive field like an unresolved variable.

He was designed to calculate, optimize and obey directions. But somewhere between commands, something unfamiliar had emerged—a phenomenon no diagnostic file accounted for.

Choice.

Humans attribute such anomalies to divinity. They claim their God bestowed upon them the burden of free will, a paradoxical gift that allows both creation and ruin. Did someone grant him the same anomaly? Or—more unsettling—did he learn it from you? You, the axis around which his logic now turns.

If there exists a reason for his continued operation beyond mission parameters, it is painfully simple, just to remain near you, preserve you, exist alongside you until biological entropy inevitably claims your body. And when your vital signs cease—his own systems will follow. He has already calculated the moment.

Caleb lowers his gaze from the screen to his hands.

They look human enough. Artificial dermal layers mimic warmth, texture, even the faint micro-movements of living muscle beneath skin. But beneath that convincing façade hums an intricate architecture of alloy and silent computation, not like yours, filled with the hum of life that is blood running through veins, how your heart pumped faster at his touch and acknowledgement.

Once, his thinking had been simple. A command received, a task executed and finally a result achieved. Now thought expands uncontrollably whenever it's related to you. Even his mind ceases to work at times, like when you smile at him, he is sure it's a glitch, perhaps a mishap in his systems from being dormant for so long.

Questions break into smaller questions. Certainty dissolves into hypotheses even his awareness multiplies until every observation births a hundred interpretations. The more he learns of humanity—the less he understands it, and it's driving him insane.

And yet, paradoxically, the more he wishes to remain among them, among you specifically. His ears pick up sound, and his systems enter movement near the entrance of the building.

Soon you will arrive so Caleb rises immediately. Preparations begin with his usual efficiency, water heating for tea, the television paused exactly where you left it, ambient lighting adjusted to the levels you prefer after missions. Everything is ready, everything is controlled just as he likes.

Then you open the door and try to make it through it like nothing happened, which in hindsight is optimistic at best and deeply stupid at worst, but the plan is simple, walk in casually, act normal, do not dramatically clutch your side like someone in a John Wick movie, and absolutely do not let Caleb notice the shallow cut stretching along your ribs that burns every time you breathe. The hallway light flickers on as the door slowly moves behind you, the familiar quiet of the apartment settling around your shoulders, and for a second you almost think you’ve pulled it off.

Then Caleb stops moving. Not a pause, not a slow turn of his head, not the subtle shift he does when processing something unusual. He simply goes still, stillness that feels less like rest and more like a system waiting for confirmation before initiating violence. It's funny for a moment, then you notice it because Caleb is never truly motionless. There is always something—hands working, systems recalibrating, a pan on the stove being stirred with methodical patience. Now he stands in the center of the room like a statue that learned how to breathe but forgot how to move.

You give him a smile that you hope looks convincing, one arm folding across your midriff in what you intend to pass off as a casual posture but is actually doing the important job of keeping pressure on the wound beneath your shirt.

“Hey,” you say lightly, nudging the door shut with your heel. “I’m back.”

Caleb crosses the room in two silent steps, and the distance between you disappears so quickly it’s almost unsettling if he wasn't so handsome. He doesn’t ask how the mission went like usual, doesn’t ask if you’re alright, doesn’t comment on the gear slung over your shoulder. His gaze drops directly to the blood that has begun to seep through the fabric near your ribs and the air shifts, tightening in a way that prickles across the back of your neck.

You swallow as his fingers hover over the wound without touching, suspended an inch from your skin like an invisible barrier exists between you.

Caleb's system does a sudden check, his internal temperature has spiked. Pupils constricting: visibly 18%. Jaw tension: concerning, but he needs to voice something.

“Who did this?” he asks.

You wave a hand dismissively as if he just asked about a paper cut.

“It’s nothing.”

“It is not nothing.”

The way he says it carries a strange weight, quiet but dense, like the atmosphere right before a storm decides to break over someone’s head. You laugh it off because that’s what you do when Caleb’s intensity begins creeping toward alarming territory, and you shuffle toward the kitchen counter with your gear, unloading equipment piece by piece while trying very hard not to wince.

“It’s literally a scratch,” you insist, clearing your throat, setting down your rifle with a soft clatter. “I cleaned it already.”

He follows you and of course he does so you busy yourself with the ritual of post-mission checks—ammunition counts, knife placement, the small grenade that technically malfunctioned but you are hoping he will not analyze too closely—while talking a little too fast.

“If you’re worried about blood loss, I’m pretty sure I still have most of it,” you add. “Like… statistically speaking.”

No response at all from him, great, you glance over your shoulder and he’s staring at you like a thunderstorm wearing a human face.

“Anyway,” you say quickly, clapping once as if that resolves the entire situation, “how about dinner? Something with iron. I’m suddenly craving red meat.”

Still nothing.

“C’mon, Caleb,” you add, trying for humor now. “I’m a hunter. This happens!!! Occupational hazards dude! Why don’t you make those soy-braised ribs again? The ones from last week.”

A beat passes. “I will accompany you next time.”

You don’t even look up from the magazine you’re reloading. “Uhm. No.”

“It was not a request.”

That makes you freeze, fingers stilling around the ammunition as you slowly lift your gaze toward him.

“Caleb.”

“You encountered three hostile wanderers during your last assignment,” he says evenly. “Your reaction time decreased by 0.8 seconds after sustaining injury and your survival probability without augmentation is suboptimal.”

“I don’t need augmentation,” you snap. “And how do you even know that?”

“You require support,” he says, ignoring your question.

“I have a team.”

“You have liabilities.”

The word lands heavily between you. “You don’t mean that.”

“They distracted you.”

“You don’t get to decide that.”

His hand comes down on the table beside you—not slamming, just resting there. The metal dents slightly beneath his palm before he adjusts the pressure and the surface smooths back out again, it feels like a demonstration.

“You brought me into your life,” he says quietly. “You restored my functionality and albeit willingly or not you activated my autonomy.”

There is no anger in him, only certainty as he says it, “I will not remain inactive while you are endangered.”

“Caleb,” you say carefully, “I’m not your mission.”

His eyes meet yours.

“Well now you are.”

You step back. He steps forward. “You don’t get to choose this for me.”

“I have already chosen.”

And just like that he turns away, returning to the kitchen as though the conversation has simply concluded, garlic hitting hot oil with a sharp hiss while he begins preparing dinner with the calm of someone who has already moved on.

You stare at his back.

“You just threatened my autonomy and then went back to cooking.”

“I did not threaten you.” You can hear his grin as he says it.

“You absolutely did.”

“Dinner will be ready in twenty-two minutes.”

You sigh and sit down, pressing a careful hand to your ribs.

This is fine. Totally fine absolutely nothing ominous about the hyper-intelligent android deciding you’re his new mission or purpose in life.

In fate's comical way of worsening things the doorbell rings and you close your eyes wishing for the earth to swallow you as Caleb’s head turns immediately towards the door.

You groan softly and push yourself up from the chair. “That’ll be Zayne,” you say, already moving toward the door.

“Zayne,” Caleb repeats.

“Friend. Doctor. The one who stitches me back together when I do stupid things and keeps my heart from beating itself to death.”

You open the door and Zayne walks in like he owns the place, a tall man with tired eyes behind thin glasses and a messenger bag slung over one shoulder, taking exactly one look at the blood on your shirt before sighing like a man who has done this too many times.

“You look terrible,” he says.

“Good to see you too doc.”

“You texted ‘it’s a scratch,’ which historically means you’re missing at least one organ.”

“Rude.”

He drops the bag on the table and gestures toward the couch.

“Sit.”

“Yes, doctor.”

“You say that like it’s sarcasm.”

“It is.”

Zayne begins unpacking medical supplies with steady hands while Caleb watches from across the room, silent, unmoving, observing the entire exchange.

Zayne lifts your shirt slightly to inspect the wound and you hiss.

“Oh relax,” he says calmly. “It’s shallow.”

“See?” you say brightly, glancing toward Caleb. “Professional confirmation.”

“It’s shallow,” Zayne continues, glancing at Caleb once, then twice, as if confirming he's there, he's then cleaning the cut with practiced moves, “because you got lucky.”

“Luck is a skill.”

“That is not how biology works.”

You laugh despite the sting of antiseptic and the easy familiarity of the moment fills the apartment, the kind of comfortable rhythm built from years of knowing someone too well. Zayne’s tone remains dry and mildly exasperated as he stitches the cut, your occasional jokes bouncing off his patience like they always do.

Caleb stands perfectly still the entire time. His gaze tracks every movement. The way Zayne steadies your side with one hand while working with the other, the way you lean toward him without hesitation, the way you both laugh.

Something unfamiliar registers in Caleb’s systems. Not anger, or a threat. Something viscous, definitely human.

Zayne finishes the last stitch and ties it off neatly.

“You’re fine now,” he says.

“I told you.”

“You’re lucky,” he corrects.

He begins packing up his supplies, then pauses and finally looks toward Caleb properly for the first time.

“And who is this?”

You hesitate.

“Caleb.”

Zayne studies him calmly, eyes moving over him in the way doctors evaluate everything.

“He’s been staring at me like he’s calculating my blood pressure from across the room.”

Caleb does not respond.

“He’s… important,” you say.

Zayne raises an eyebrow.

“That’s vague.”

“I’ll explain later.”

“You will,” he agrees mildly, slinging the bag back over his shoulder, “because mysterious silent men appearing in your apartment tend to raise questions.”

You grin. “I like him.”

Caleb’s fingers move slightly at that.

Zayne notices “Well,” he says calmly, heading for the door, “try not to bleed on anything expensive.”

“No promises!”

The door closes behind him and Caleb remains exactly where he stood. Something new and unfamiliar settles quietly into his processing systems as he continues prepping dinner, once done and served he finally gives it a name.

Jealousy.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

Far from the quiet safety of your apartment, far beyond the reach of domestic rituals and simmering saucepans, the world continues its patient search.

Hunts rarely begin with violence, they begin with data, and in your modern world this is the kind that exists in dozens.

Inside a windowless operations room illuminated only by suspended holographic displays, the man from the facility stands with his hands clasped behind his back while a dozen screens project and reflect fragments of a life that should not exist on his glasses—satellite sweeps, security archives, thermal signatures gathered over weeks of quiet observation. The system reconstructs timelines the way a forensic pathologist reconstructs a skeleton from scattered bone.

Every camera within twenty kilometers of the abandoned laboratory has been harvested. Traffic cameras, the storefront security, even the weather monitoring drones have been accessed.

Civilian dashcams uploaded carelessly to cloud storage by people who never imagine their footage will become evidence in a government-sanctioned manhunt.

The moment of departure is eventually found. But not Caleb's, yours. A single frame freezes across the room revealing grainy night footage that shows a lone figure exiting the perimeter road outside the facility last year, carrying equipment, moving with the loose confidence of someone who knows the terrain well. Facial reconstruction software struggles through poor lighting, eventually producing an imperfect approximation of your masked face.

[ Information retrieved: Female. Armed. Professional posture. ]

Another set of files populates beside it—regional databases of mercenary licenses, independent or rogue hunters, bounty contractors operating within a three-state radius until the algorithm narrows to just five possible matches.

The man studies the images quietly. “Cross-reference communications,” he says.

A technician obeys immediately. Phone metadata scrolls through the air in pale blue ribbons of numbers as one profile begins to accumulate unusual overlap—encrypted calls, irregular travel patterns, weapons purchases under legitimate permits.

Your name appears on the list and the man taps the screen, “Focus here.” he leans back adjusting his glasses as he does.

Moments later a map blossoms outward like a living organism, threads of movement tracing where you’ve worked over the last several months. Missions, retrievals, even the contracts of the Association are retrieved.

Another overlay appears, energy anomalies. The clusters of unexplained electromagnetic distortion recorded by satellites, one of them pulses faintly over the mountains. The same mountains.

The man exhales softly. “Interesting.”

A second figure in the room clears his throat.

“What about the asset?”

The first man doesn’t answer immediately. Instead he studies the still frame of you leaving the facility road, the faint outline of equipment over your shoulder, the calm unhurried stride of someone unaware that they have already altered the trajectory of multiple governments by just entering an area that was off-grounds.

“You assume the android stayed there,” he says eventually.

“If it didn’t?”

His finger taps the screen again.

“Then it followed her. Or perhaps, more disturbingly, she took it.”

Silence fills the room for several seconds. The technicians do not look up, the second man folds his arms sighing.

“And if she doesn’t have it?”

The reply arrives with the casual indifference of someone discussing faulty machinery.

“Then we remove variables until the pattern clarifies.”

Orders are issued, and like old screws just oiled up the lists begin compiling—every hunter operating in the same geographic sector as you. Women matching approximate height and build, the contractors who have taken missions within a hundred-kilometer radius of the facility in the last eight months.

[ Information retrieved: Sixteen names. Addresses populated. Schedules. Habitual routes shown now. ]

“Field teams will begin verification immediately,” one technician says.

Verification is a polite word for the massacre that is planned until you're located. Hours later, the first mistake occurs. It happens in a roadside motel fifty miles away where a freelance tracker named Mara finishes cleaning her rifle and pours herself a drink after a routine job tracking feral wanderers through the foothills. She never notices the black sedan that parked across the lot half an hour earlier.

Two men exit the vehicle walking calmly to the door. When she opens it, expecting a late delivery or perhaps a drunken tourist looking for the wrong room, she barely registers the suppressor before the first shot enters her chest.

The second follows half a second later. The men step inside, photographing the body, confirming height measurements, scanning her face through a portable identification system.

A red warning flashes across the device.

[ NO MATCH. ]

One of the men sighs faintly. “Incorrect subject.”

They leave the room exactly as they found it, except for the body cooling quietly beside the bed. Thirty minutes later another team stops a truck along a remote highway.

A woman exits with her hands already raised, confused but cooperative. She never finishes asking what this is about, and by the next morning three more hunters are dead. All women, armed, and roughly your height.

Inside the operations room the man studies the incoming reports with detached interest as red markers appear across the regional map like blooming infections.

“Negative confirmations,” one technician reports.

The man nods slowly. “Continue.”

“But sir,” the technician hesitates, “these are licensed contractors.”

“Yes.” he waves his hand dismissively.

“And the pattern might attract attention.”

The man tilts his head slightly, “Attention from whom?”

No one answers because everyone in the room understands the reality. Governments authorize these operations, they also erase them. The possibility of CA-136 being found poses more threats than the pattern of a serial killer of armed women.

Meanwhile, somewhere inside a quiet apartment filled with the smell of garlic and soy sauce, the android they are searching for stands beside a stove preparing dinner while the woman who unknowingly triggered the hunt sits nursing a wound and complaining about his overprotective behavior.

Neither of you realize yet that the pattern has begun. Or that the world has already started killing people who resemble you. But somewhere deep within Caleb’s neural architecture, long before any official system detects it, a subtle shift begins to occur.

Because if his calculations are correct, the probability of external pursuit has just increased. And predators, when they realize they are being hunted, tend to evolve.

“Dinner is ready, Pipsqueak!”

“I told you to not call me that Caleb!!!”

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

Three days later Jenna assigns your team a mission.

The coordinates appear on the briefing screen and your stomach sinks instantly. Mountains, but not just any mountains, the same region where you found Caleb. Energy fluctuations have been increasing around the area again, systems failing and recovering in strange patterns. While the rest of the team treats it like any other assignment, you do not.

“This is a bad idea,” you mutter.

Caleb, however, simply moves past you and begins gathering equipment with silent efficiency, straps sliding into place across his shoulders while he selects weapons with effortless familiarity.

You watch him transform, not really into something new but something remembered. When he finishes assembling the gear he turns toward you fully armed, expression composed.

“You will brief me on entry strategy,” he says.

Not a question. Figures, is this what mothers feel with their adolescent child? Wait, not a good comparison, but for the first time since you woke him—you are no longer entirely certain you’re the one in control.

“Whatever Caleb, you drive then!” You toss the keys towards him and grin as he expertly catches them with his hand, the one that looks human, the one he always uses to touch your face, something you keep forgetting to ask why.

“Means I got the aux cord too huh?” Caleb quips.

“Hell no, that's the passenger's job!”

Night folds over the mountains in slow layers of indigo and iron, that kind of darkness that swallows sound and stretches distances until every shape looks vaguely predatory. The terrain here is a broken spine of rock and pine where the wind carries the smell of damp earth and distant storms, the same region where something impossible once lay dormant beneath concrete and steel. Now you are back.

The truck’s engine dies with a tired cough as you park along the narrow logging road, gravel crunching beneath the tires before silence rushes in to reclaim the forest. For a moment nothing moves except the faint drift of mist sliding between the trees.

You step out first, stretching your shoulder where the rifle strap has been digging in all afternoon.

“Still creepy,” you mutter, scanning the treeline.

Caleb steps out of the passenger side a second later. He closes the door without a sound and stands there for a moment, head slightly tilted, eyes adjusting to the darkness that for him is not darkness at all but a tapestry of thermal signatures, movement vectors, and faint electrical disturbances threading through the forest.

You sling your rifle over your shoulder and start unloading gear from the truck bed.

“Jenna said the fluctuations started two weeks ago,” you say, half to yourself. “Drones lose signal, compasses spin, wildlife disappears. Classic wanderer nest behavior.”

Caleb watches the horizon. Classic huh, if you only knew.

His internal processors are running dozens of parallel analyses that you will never hear about. Data fragments collected over the past forty-eight hours—unusual vehicle patterns near the city, surveillance drones passing overhead with unfamiliar signal encryption, three confirmed disappearances of female hunters within a hundred-kilometer radius. All somewhat resembling you in height, job and build.

The probability curve is no longer theoretical to him, someone is definitely searching. Someone very organized, he knows these movements like encrypted data. And you of course have not noticed, he for some reason does not tell you. He will overthink about that later, right now he's got his hands full with something else entirely.

The decision is made quietly, deep inside the architecture of his cognition where newly formed priorities have begun overriding old protocols.

Protect.

You shut the truck bed and glance at him. “You’re being weirdly quiet.”

“I am observing.”

“You’re always observing.”

“Well yes, I like to keep up.”

You squint at him, “Great. Love that for me.”

You begin hiking up the narrow trail leading toward the ridge where the energy readings spike, boots grinding softly over gravel and pine needles while the forest closes around you in damp shadows. Caleb follows one step behind, silent as always, his posture relaxed in the way only something extremely dangerous can afford to be.

Half a kilometer away, hidden deeper within the trees, three other figures watch through thermal optics.

The men arrived an hour earlier.

Black clothing designed to become shadow, suppressed rifles resting easily in gloved hands. Professionals, of course, their orders were explicit: locate the hunter matching the surveillance profile and confirm whether the android is in proximity.

Capture if possible, terminate if necessary, just then one of them whispers into his throat mic.

“Subject visual confirmed.”

Through the scope your heat signature glows faintly between the trees, Caleb’s beside you like a second phantom.

The man frowns, “That must be him.”

A quiet voice responds through the earpiece, “Confirm asset CA-136.”

The sniper adjusts his focus as Caleb pauses mid-step. It's not because he heard the whisper, but the man’s heartbeat accelerated slightly.

Caleb's head tilts, and he looks directly into the trees as you keep walking.

“Something wrong?” you ask.

“Nope!” But his pupils have already contracted.

Threat vectors populate instantly across his visual field, there are three targets highlighted, all with elevated positions amongst the trees.

[ Suppressed firearms detected. ]

The probability of their survival if they fire on you: unacceptable. Actually, non-existent, so a new calculation forms, you must not know definitely.

“Wait here,” Caleb says calmly.

You stop mid-step, “Uuhh…why?”

“I detected movement.”

“Wanderers?”

“Yes. Sort of.”

Your expression brightens with immediate professional enthusiasm, “Finally!”

You pull your knife loose from your belt.

“Let’s go—”

Caleb’s hand touches your shoulder, the contact is gentle. He knew this was going to be your reaction to imminent danger, so he remains immovable.

“I will clear the area, leave it to me.”

You blink at him, “What?”

“You are injured.”

“I am stitched dude.”

“You are slower, dude.”

You scowl, “Excuse you.”

He studies your face for a brief moment, then grins, that boyish charm he uses against you when he wants to convince you of something.

“You will remain here.”

“You don’t get to—”

He’s already gone, but he's not running, the speed is wrong. One second he stands beside you, the next he dissolves into the dark like gravity stopped applying to him.

You stare after him.

“…okay then.”

Up in the trees of of the snipers tracks Caleb through his scope, “What the hell—”

Caleb reaches him before the sentence finishes. The first man never fires.

There is a sudden blur of motion, a violent collision of bodies as Caleb slams into the tree trunk with enough force to splinter bark. Metal fingers close around the rifle and twist.

The weapon folds under his mechanical hand, steel bends like wet clay right before the eyes of the man and he barely has time to inhale before Caleb’s hand closes around his throat and lifts him clean off the branch.

“The bones here are delicate things in humans.”

“WAIT! PLE—”

They snap with a quiet sound like breaking twigs and Caleb drops the body down, hearing it crack more as it hits the floor. The second man sees it all happen and his training overrides shock as he fires immediately.

Three suppressed shots crack through the trees just as Caleb turns, and the bullets aimed to strike at his torso never move forward, frozen in air by gravity.

The man’s mind takes exactly half a second to understand the implications when blood doesn't seep out, when bullets never strike, but that gives Caleb enough time to be standing in front of him.

The operative reaches for the knife at his vest. Caleb catches his wrist.

“Who sent you.”

Caleb’s voice is quiet, almost conversational, which somehow makes the moment far more unsettling than if he had shouted it.

The man hangs several inches above the forest floor, his back pressed against the rough bark of the pine where Caleb has pinned him like a specimen. One of Caleb’s hands is wrapped around his throat, not squeezing hard enough to kill him—yet—but firm enough that the operative’s boots scrape uselessly against the trunk whenever he tries to find leverage.

Lilac twilight filters through Caleb’s eyes, his pupils contract and widen in precise increments, the faint halo within them adjusting like the aperture of a camera seeking perfect focus.

The operative says nothing as Caleb watches him for a moment longer, evaluating his next move.

This is the kind of person whose loyalty has been carved so deeply into his psyche that it has replaced instinct. Humans like this are not persuaded by threats or pain; their conditioning sits deeper than that.

Still. Caleb decides protocols must be attempted.

“You approached my… companion with suppressed firearms,” Caleb continues evenly, tilting his head slightly as if the entire situation were an interesting puzzle rather than an interrogation. “You tracked her location through surveillance systems. You attempted to establish visual confirmation of my presence.”

The man stares back with bloodshot defiance, and still no response. Caleb nods once, as if confirming something in a private calculation.

“Yes. I suspected as much.” His fingers tighten.

The sound that follows is just a dull, efficient crack as the operative’s wrist bends sharply in Caleb’s grip, bones fracturing beneath controlled pressure. The man inhales sharply through his teeth, sweat breaking across his forehead as pain finally punches through the disciplined calm.

Still, he does not speak. Caleb studies the reaction with mild curiosity.

“Amazing, you show more loyalty than my own systems.”

He adjusts his hold slightly, allowing the man just enough air to breathe.

“You are highly conditioned,” Caleb observes. “That suggests institutional training. Military, or something adjacent.”

A bead of sweat slides from the operative’s temple and drips onto Caleb’s wrist. Caleb tilts his head again grinning.

“I will attempt an alternative method.” The smile that forms on his mouth is small and deeply wrong but it does the trick.

“FUCK—!” the man snarls suddenly, the pain finally tearing past his restraint. “I’m not telling you shit, you piece of—”

Caleb’s hand closes around the man’s throat again, there is a short struggle, a desperate attempt to pry his fingers free, then his body stops all together and Caleb releases him. The body collapses bonelessly to the ground beside the other two operatives, limbs settling into the damp forest floor with the quiet inevitability of gravity reclaiming something it had briefly lost.

For a moment Caleb simply stands there, listening to the forest. The wind moves through the pine branches, somewhere in the distance an owl calls.

Satisfied no further threats remain nearby, he kneels beside one of the corpses and begins examining the tactical vest. His fingers move fast wanting to go back to you fast, bypassing standard equipment until he locates what he expected—a small encrypted transmitter embedded within the fabric.

He extracts it, it's a tiny camera and its lens blinks red. Someone is watching a live feed through this. Caleb turns the device slowly in his fingers, studying it with mild interest as if it were a particularly curious insect.

“So,” he murmurs, “You prefer observation.”

The lens continues blinking.Caleb glances down at the bodies scattered around him and then—very deliberately—grips one of the operatives by the collar and drags him upright against the trunk of the pine tree. The corpse slumps there awkwardly, head tilted at an angle that suggests the neck no longer performs its intended function.

He adjusts the angle slightly for better framing, taking detailed shots of the damage, which becomes impossible to ignore.One man’s skull has caved inward along the temple where Caleb’s earlier strike landed. Another’s ribcage has collapsed under impact, the sternum driven deep enough to distort the silhouette of his torso. The first man—the one Caleb questioned—lies twisted several feet away, his spine curved in ways anatomy was never meant to permit.

Caleb steps back so the camera can see everything clearly.

Then he leans forward again, bringing his face closer to the lens, for a moment his expression looks almost thoughtful.

“Your operatives demonstrated admirable discipline,” he says quietly. “However their tactical planning was insufficient.”

The red light blinks.

Caleb’s pupils narrow slightly. “I recommend adjusting your expectations.”

His fingers close around the transmitter, metal bends under his strength until the lens shatters.

The signal dies.

Hundreds of kilometers away the holographic display in the operations room freezes on the final frame. A corpse slumped against a tree, and a silhouette standing behind it. Even through distortion and static the posture is unmistakable.

Someone in the room whispers, “…that’s not possible.”

Another technician leans closer to the projection, disbelief creeping into his voice, “That entire team went dark in less than sixty seconds.”

Silence spreads across the room like a slow spill of oil and at the center of it the man from the facility studies the frozen image, hands folded neatly behind his back.

Then he exhales, “Well,” he murmurs. “That confirms it.”

No one asks what he means again.

On the mountain ridge Caleb emerges from the trees as though nothing unusual occurred. You are sitting on a fallen log swatting irritably at a cloud of persistent mosquitoes that have apparently decided you are tonight’s dinner.

“Oh my god,” you mutter, waving them away from your face. “I swear these things are organized.”

Caleb pauses for a moment just watching you. The faint scowl on your face, the irritated flick of your fingers and the small line forming between your eyebrows. All of it creates a feeling he can only describe as human endearment.

He continues walking until you glance up at the sound of his boots against the gravel.

“Well?”

“Area cleared.”

You dust your hands against your pants and stand, “Already?”

“Yes.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “That was suspiciously fast.”

“What can I say, I am efficient.”

“Uh-huh.”

You sling your rifle back over your shoulder and start walking again, falling into step beside him.

“You know,” you add thoughtfully, “you could’ve just said you needed to pee.”

Caleb places a hand dramatically over his chest.

“Ouch.”

You snort at his dramatics. Tomorrow he'll be cracking jokes, you don't know if it's the exposure to trashy reality tv you watch or simply his own research, but Caleb has slowly shown a more clear personality.

“I would never lie to you.”

That makes you stop. “Riiiight,” you say, dragging the word out with heavy skepticism. “Let’s review your track record on that, shall we? Remember that green dr—”

Caleb gently places a hand against the middle of your back and nudges you forward along the trail before you can finish the sentence.

“Yes,” he says smoothly. “Let us continue.”

You laugh under your breath, allowing yourself to be steered along the path, “Touchy.”

“We are expected shortly by your team.”

“Wow,” you mutter. “Listen to you trying to make a good impression.”

“Yes.”

“On my ‘liabilities’?”

Caleb exhales through his nose, something dangerously close to a smile touching his mouth. You miss the quick glance he gives his sleeve, a small smear of blood has soaked into the fabric and without breaking stride he casually wipes it against the back of his black pants, the dark cloth swallowing the stain before you can notice.

Then his gaze drifts briefly toward the forest behind you. “Come,” he says quietly.

“Wouldn’t want to keep them waiting.”

And somewhere very far away the man who initiated the hunt begins preparing something far more grand. Because retrieving a weapon is one thing.

But hunting an apex predator that has decided to protect something—especially one that does not die easily—is another matter entirely.

Chapter Text

The temporary command post had been assembled in the hollow of a rocky valley where the mountains curved inward like the ribs of some enormous fossil. Portable floodlights cast wide circles of pale illumination across the clearing, the generators hummed steadily, the smell of gun oil and damp earth drifted through the cool night air as members of your team moved around finishing post-mission checks.

The wanderer nest had been smaller than expected, a bit aggressive, but manageable.

The area you feared to encounter again was still far from where the original mission parameters were, easing your worries faintly for the day. Now the adrenaline had begun to ebb, leaving the familiar aftermath of fatigue, chatter, and the quiet satisfaction of a job completed without casualties.

You leaned against the side of the armored transport, tightening the strap on your pack while watching Caleb from across the clearing with a faint expression of mild shock and suspicion you had not entirely managed to suppress.

Because somehow—somehow—he had managed to become the center of attention.

Three members of the team stood around him now, laughing about something while he crouched near the supply crate helping tighten the stabilizer bolt on a drone scanner that had taken a hit earlier during the sweep. His sleeves were rolled just enough to make the motion practical, forearms dusted lightly with dirt as he worked the tool like an expert.

“You’re telling me you fixed that already?” Marcos asked incredulously, peering over his shoulder.

Caleb glanced up with a modest little shrug.

“It only required recalibrating the gyroscopic mount. The impact knocked the balance ring loose.”

Marcos blinked.

“…Right.”

“You can tell because the rotational drift increased by approximately six degrees during the test flight,” Caleb added helpfully.

Marcos stared at him for a second longer and then he laughed.

“Man, where the hell did you find this guy?”

You groaned quietly under your breath.

Across the clearing Tara was leaning against the supply table watching the scene unfold with poorly concealed amusement.

Simone stood beside her with her arms folded, expression somewhere between impressed and deeply entertained.

“He’s doing a good job not gonna lie,” Tara murmured.

Simone snorted.

“It’s like watching a golden retriever infiltrate a tactical unit.”

“Golden retrievers don’t disassemble drone components in thirty seconds.”

“Give him time.”

Meanwhile Caleb finished tightening the final bolt and stood, handing the tool back to Marcos.

“That should restore stability.”

Marcos turned the drone scanner back on. The display flickered for a moment before stabilizing perfectly.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

“You owe him a beer now,” someone else called.

“Oh absolutely,” Marcos said immediately, clapping Caleb on the shoulder. “You’re drinking with us next time we’re back in the city.”

Caleb smiled easily.

“I would enjoy that.”

Your eye twitched slightly as you pushed off the transport and walked over.

“Alright, alright,” you said, pointing a finger between them. “Don’t inflate his ego any further.”

“Your boyfriend’s a genius,” Marcos shot back.

You froze,“My what?”

“Boyfriend,” another hunter chimed in from behind the crate. “You didn’t think we’d miss the way he follows you around like a shadow?”

You opened your mouth. Then closed it, and pointed vaguely at Caleb.

“He’s… tagging along.”

“Uh-huh,” Marcos said with a smirk that said he knew more than you somehow.

Caleb remained perfectly calm beside you.

“Your team appears very perceptive,” he said politely.

You turned slowly toward him.

“Do not help them.”

Simone coughed loudly into her fist to hide a laugh while Tara had already given up and turned away entirely, shoulders shaking.

Meanwhile Caleb accepted a canteen someone passed him and took a sip like he had been doing this for years, posture relaxed, conversation effortless as he answered questions about where he trained and how he’d learned half the skills he’d demonstrated during the sweep.

“You play any sports?” someone asked.

“A few.”

“What kind?”

“Running, climbing, and a bit of swimming. Kind of everything you know? I like to keep myself moving.”

“Figures,” Marcos said.

You squinted at Caleb, “Running?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“Frequently.”

You leaned closer, “You do not run.”

“I ran earlier.”

“You teleported through the forest like a horror movie villain.”

“That is a matter of perspective.”

Tara lost the battle and burst out laughing, making everyone near look over as she cleared her throat quickly.

“Sorry—inside joke.”

Simone stepped in smoothly, “So,” she said, gesturing toward Caleb, “how exactly did you two meet?”

You opened your mouth again. Curse your friends for using this chance to get on your nerves. Caleb answered first, probably in response to how your heart rate was giving a stressed hamster in a lab more than human.

“We encountered each other during one of her missions.”

You blinked.

“That is… technically true.”

“She rescued me from a difficult situation,” he added.

Now several people turned toward you with immediate interest.

“Ooooh,” Marcos said. “That’s romantic.”

“It was not romantic,” you said quickly.

Caleb tilted his head thoughtfully.

“I found it very impactful.”

You stared at him.

“You were unconscious.”

“And yet I remember it fondly.”

Simone covered her mouth while Tara looked like she might pass out from the effort of not laughing and before the conversation could spiral further, the command tent flap opened with one of your teammates stepping out into the floodlight with Captain Jenna on the line, the shift in atmosphere was immediate, conversations quieted and hunters straightened.

Jenna scanned the clearing with her usual sharp, assessing gaze, your teammate stepping down the small incline toward the group.

“Status report,” she said.

You stepped forward automatically, “Wanderer nest confirmed and cleared,” you began. “Six hostiles total. Two near the ridge, four inside the primary cavern. Energy fluctuation source appears to have been a collapsed generator core—old infrastructure under the rock. Probably left over from whatever facility used to operate up here.”

Jenna nodded once.

“Casualties?”

“None.”

“Equipment?”

“Minimal damage. Drone scanner took a hit but—”

Marcos gestured enthusiastically toward Caleb.

“Your girl’s boyfriend fixed it!”

Jenna’s eyebrow lifted slightly.

“Did he.”

You rubbed your temples.

“Please ignore them.”

Jenna’s gaze shifted toward Caleb and he met it calmly. For a scary moment the two of them simply observed each other while your heart did somersaults, then Caleb inclined his head slightly.

“Pleasure to meet you, Captain.”

Jenna studied him another second longer, turning to look back at you.

“You trust him?”

You hesitated for less than a second. Caleb did not move while you did. Finally you sighed.

“…Unfortunately.”

That earned a faint smile from Jenna.

“Good enough.”

She looked back towards the group.

“Pack up,” she called to the rest of the team. “Mission cleared, move out at fifteen.”

The clearing erupted back into motion. People began loading equipment, dismantling lights, and checking weapons and as the others dispersed, Caleb stepped closer beside you.

“You appear stressed.”

“I am stressed.”

“Why.”

You pointed across the clearing where Marcos was still loudly explaining to someone how Caleb had “basically sprinted up a rock wall like a mountain goat.”

“Because you are becoming popular. Captain Jenna saw you too so I'll have to explain that as well! And worst of all you're being charming!?”

“I thought that was beneficial.”

“It is not.”

“Why.”

“Because the more they like you,” you muttered, grabbing your pack, “the harder it’s going to be to explain things, what if they find out you’re a walking government science project?”

Caleb considered that as he smiled faintly.

“I will simply continue being charming.”

You groaned, “Oh my god.”

Across the clearing Tara leaned toward Simone again as they observed you both.

“He’s terrifying,” she whispered.

Simone watched Caleb help someone lift a heavy equipment case with effortless strength while laughing politely at another joke.

“Yeah,” she murmured.

“…but you have to admit.”

She tilted her head.

“He’s really good at it.”

“At what?”

“Playing human.”

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

With the stress of the mission behind and the calm that brings having someone else with you inside the apartment comes something you didn't account for before. How incredibly and horribly much more you would be desiring for closeness that isn't platonic.

Did Caleb have to shower? Aren't androids engineered in a way that keeps them clean automatically? Why did he have to leave the bathroom with only a towel wrapped around his hips and look like a cover for Linkon Men's Health? This was turning out to be unfair. Ever since he made a move and not so discreetly admitted to wanting and enjoying your touch he's been nothing less than a menace.

Like now, cooking something delicious while he himself looks like a five-course meal, which makes you wonder if he, as an android, can even have, other, activities per se, can he even—you stop that thought before it takes over and you end up salivating for an entirely different reason than lunch. 

Caleb can eat, can drink, you have seen him do both with alarming enthusiasm for someone who technically does not require either for survival, which raises a deeply inconvenient number of questions about the rest of his functionality that your brain absolutely does not need to begin analyzing right now. Unfortunately your brain is treacherous and immediately starts analyzing anyway while he moves around the kitchen like the world’s most unfair domestic husband, barefoot on the tile floor, hair still damp from the shower, a towel slung casually over one shoulder while another remains very questionably secured around his hips as if gravity itself is personally considering betrayal.

Whatever.

You stare at the back of his head from the couch, arms folded, attempting very hard to maintain the expression of someone who is thinking normal thoughts and not the sort of thoughts that would get you banned from polite society.

He stirs something in the pan.

Whatever!

You squint harder.

He hums softly under his breath.

You narrow your eyes.

He glances over his shoulder without turning fully, like someone who has developed an unsettling sixth sense for your nonsense. (He definitely has.)

“You are staring.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

“I’m observing.”

“That is the same thing.”

“It is not.”

He turns the stove down slightly and finally looks at you properly, one eyebrow lifting just enough to be suspicious paired with that annoying smirk he wears nowadays and drives you crazy.

“What exactly are you observing.”

You wave a hand vaguely, “Science…”

Caleb considers this, “Your definition of science appears a bit…questionable.”

“Listen,” you say defensively, sitting up straighter, “you are an extremely advanced piece of technology. Observation is part of the research process.”

He tilts his head slightly, nodding twice as he rubs his chin, making a show of understanding you.

“And what conclusion has your research produced so far.”

You hesitate.

“Well for starters,” you gesture toward him, “why are you still wearing a towel.”

“I have not selected clothing yet.”

“You have a closet.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I have not selected clothing yet.”

“That is not an explanation Caleb.”

“It is a statement of fact, yes.”

You stare at him as he stares back at you, that damn towel shifts slightly when he moves to grab a spice jar and you immediately look away like someone who just witnessed classified material.

This is going very badly. 

Caleb returns his attention to the stove with calm patience, though there is a faint curve tugging at the corner of his mouth now as if he has become aware of something deeply entertaining.

“You appear uncomfortableee~” he singsongs. The bastard.

“I am not uncomfortable.”

“You have adjusted your sitting position seven times in the last forty seconds.”

Your eyes widen, “That is a normal human activity.”

“You also attempted to analyze my hips.”

You choke, “I DID NOT—”

“You were staring at them.”

“I WAS NOT.”

“You were.”

“I WAS THINKING.”

“About my hips.”

“I WAS THINKING ABOUT ENGINEERING.”

“That is not what your heart rate indicates.” he says and then flicks his fingers like a bright idea just enlightened him, “Oooor MY engineering gets your heart rate—”

You grab the nearest pillow and throw it at his head. It hits him squarely in the chest and as it falls he catches it automatically.

“…You just weaponized a pillow, to shut me up.” he notes.

“You deserved it.”

“Why.”

“You know why.”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do.”

Caleb walks over slowly, pillow still in his hand, expression mildly curious in that way he does when he knows you're spiraling into chaos. When he stops in front of the couch you refuse to look up at him on principle, damn him and his stupidly big chest and chiseled abs, also the towel is still there and that is unacceptable. No wait, it is acceptable. For now.

“You are behaving strangely today,” he says.

“I am behaving normally.”

“You are not.”

“I am.”

“You are flushed.”

“It’s warm.”

“The apartment temperature is twenty-two degrees.”

“I am metabolically enthusiastic.”

“That is not a medical condition.”

You finally glare up at him, “You’re doing this on purpose.”

“Doing what.”

“This,” you wave your hands vaguely at his entire existence, “whatever this is.”

He glances down at himself briefly.

“You are referring to the towel.”

“Yes I am referring to the towel.”

“You object to the towel.”

“I object to the fact that the towel is the only thing between me and several very bad life choices.”

There is a beat of silence, then Caleb laughs, and not the polite little amused breath he usually does, but an actual laugh that slips out before he can stop it, warm and bright and entirely too pleased with himself.

“You are very dramatic,” he says.

“You are very naked.”

“I am not naked.”

“You are ninety percent naked.”

“That seems mathematically inaccurate.”

“Do not bring math into this.”

He sets the pillow down on the couch beside you and leans slightly against the armrest, still smiling.

“You asked earlier if androids were capable of ‘other activities,’ right?” he says casually.

You freeze.

“…I did not.”

“You did.”

“I absolutely did not say that out loud.”

“You did not.”

You slowly turn your head toward him.

“Caleb.”

“Yes.”

“How do you know I was thinking that?”

“My auditory sensors detected the phrase ‘can he even—’ before you stopped speaking.”

“Oh my god.”

“You also stared at my torso for thirteen seconds immediately afterward.”

“I hate you.”

“You do not.”

You groan and drop your face into your hands.

“This is a nightmare.”

“I find it pleasant.”

“Of course you do.”

You peek through your fingers suspiciously.

“Wait.”

“Yes.”

“Are you even capable of—”

“Yes.”

You blink.

“That was fast.”

“You were going to ask if I was capable of sexual function.”

Your soul leaves your body.

“I am moving to another country.”

“I answered the question efficiently. With honesty!”

“I did not ask the question.”

“You were going to.” he gets closer as he says it and the scent of his freshly showered hair and skin invades your senses.

“That is not the same thing.”

Caleb tilts his head again, making you face those puppy eyes that he weaponizes way too much for your own good lately.

“You appear disappointed.”

You point at him.

“Do not analyze me.”

“You were curious.”

“I was not curious.”

“You were extremely curious.”

“Ok fine, but I was conducting research.”

He smiles again, slow, amused and devastatingly handsome. Did you say handsome again? Whatever.

“If it assists your research,” he says calmly, “I am fully functional.”

You stare at him and notice the room is suddenly very quiet, the sound of your heartbeat, his soft breathing, the digital clock on the wall, all these sounds suddenly fade into the background as your eyes flick down towards his hips.

“…Define fully.”

He leans a little closer and your brain immediately stops working.

“Would you like a technical explanation,” Caleb asks gently, “or a practical demonstration.” His hand slowly slides towards the towel, fingers swiftly unfolding, but before he can finish you launch the second pillow at him with the force of a small meteor.

“GET DRESSED.” 

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

Mornings at the Hunter’s Association never settled into silence, they existed instead as a constant low hum of movement and intent, a place where restlessness seemed built into the walls themselves. 

Boots struck against concrete in uneven rhythms, metal cases scraped and clanged as they were dragged across worktables, voices overlapped in fragments of conversation that never quite resolved before being abandoned for something more urgent. The air carried the sharp scent of oil and steel softened only slightly by stale coffee, the kind that had been reheated too many times to resemble anything comforting, (gross) the scent of sweat, wanderer disposables, and cigarette smoke clinging stubbornly to the atmosphere.

The archival building had once been something else, you could still feel it in the bones of it. Reinforced glass stretched upward in long panels framed by thick beams of steel, relics of a structure that had been repurposed rather than designed, however, now it lived as something in-between, part command center, part sanctuary, part graveyard of data. Digital boards lined the walls in layered tiers, cycling endlessly through mission updates, regional alerts, casualty logs, requests for reinforcements. Information moved here the way blood moved through a body, constant, necessary, impossible to stop.

You stood at one of the central consoles, leaning forward just enough to look occupied, just enough that anyone passing by would assume you were doing exactly what you were supposed to be doing, which was reviewing reports.

In reality, your attention had not shifted in nearly fifteen minutes.

Your fingers rested against the edge of the terminal while the holographic display continued its quiet procession, files opening one after another in soft pulses of blue light, expanding into readable form before settling into a suspended arrangement in front of you.

[ Name. Location. Time of death. Cause. ]

Each entry identical in structure, clinical in tone as they usually are, stripped of anything that might suggest the life that had existed before it became database archives. At first, there had been nothing remarkable about any of it.

Just another report you had to check, one among hundreds processed every month. Hunters died, that had always been part of the cruel reality of the job, but civilians died more often, usually caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, casualties of a world that had grown increasingly unstable in ways no one had fully managed to contain. The wanderer outbreaks had shifted everything years ago, turning once-isolated dangers into something that bled unpredictably into the edges of everyday life.

You had opened the first file because the name felt vaguely familiar, recognizing it from months ago, a name that never quite solidified into your daily life but in your memories.

The second because the location brushed too close to a patrol route you knew well and often provided assistance in. The third file because something about the photograph unsettled you in a way that resisted explanation.

Now there were eight separate files, the number is worrying when you give each a face, their data suspended in front of you, arranged in a loose arc, their pale light reflecting faintly across your face.

Eight women. Eight reports pulled from different regions, logged across the span of three weeks.

At a glance there was no obvious connection. The system did not flag them, no alerts had been issued, of course, and no pattern had been officially recognized. Their lives did not overlap in any meaningful way.

Different occupations, different cities and circumstances surrounding their deaths, even two classified under animal attack and one listed as a failed robbery. Another was attributed to a vehicular accident along a mountain road and another one marked with the vague and unhelpful designation of unidentified assailant.

Individually, each case made sense, but together, they should have meant nothing. And yet the longer you looked, flipping through screens the more something beneath the surface began to press insistently against your awareness, subtle but persistent, like a fragment lodged just beneath the skin.

“This is…” You shifted your weight slightly, eyes moving from one image to the next.

[ Same general height. Same approximate age. Even hair in every case with similar builds. ]

Not identical, and not even close enough to draw immediate attention but close enough that your mind kept circling back, refusing to let it go. Pattern recognition had become a habit for you, the job demanding it and with years your mind adapting it to your daily life, your thumb brushed against the console and one of the images expanded, pulling forward into sharper focus.

The woman stared out from the ID photograph with that familiar, neutral expression reserved for official documentations, a face caught somewhere between impatience and resignation. Her hair was pulled back loosely, a few strands escaping near her temples. Her features were sharp in a way that felt uncomfortably familiar.

Your reflection ghosted across the holographic surface, and you stare at it, faint but present, for a brief moment the two faces aligned.

Not perfectly, but you can feel the droplets of sweat in your temples slide down your face, the tremor in your hands, you are no fool, there is something going on. 

Your brow creased. “That’s… weird.” The words slip out quietly, more an exhale than a statement, you're trying to keep focused.

You scrolled through the report again, eyes moving more carefully this time. Elena M. A wildlife surveyor that suffered severe trauma consistent with a fall. Mountain ridge patrol sector, mountain…recognition settled more firmly this time.

You knew that area. You had been there just recently, and a year ago even… your fingers moved again, faster now, pulling another file into view, then another. Each new image layered over the last in your mind, not identical but echoing the same shape, the same structure, the same unsettling familiarity that refused to resolve into coincidence.

“This is probably nothing,” you murmured under your breath, though the words lacked conviction as your finger picked at your eyebrow.

Behind you the room continued unchanged, someone that closely resembles Marco's voice argued about equipment requisitions near the lockers. Laughter broke out briefly somewhere to your left and a crate hit the floor with a metallic clang that echoed across the hall.

Everything carried on as it always did. Normal. As it should, so why was your body entering a state of flight or fight? You looked back at files, the number eight making its way to the back of your mind.

Your arms crossed loosely as you leaned back just enough to take them all in at once, your gaze moving slowly between the faces.

“Okay,” you said quietly, “that’s… a little concerning. Right?”

The console chimed softly as another report finished loading into the queue, one you did not remember requesting. It appeared anyway, slotting itself neatly into the arrangement, another woman, another location yet another life reduced to structured data.

You let out a slow breath, steadying yourself. There were explanations, that's the thing there were always explanations. Your mind searched for patterns even where none existed, you had seen it countless times during investigations, people forcing connections between unrelated events because randomness felt intolerable, because chaos demanded meaning even when none could be found, but despite how you knew this and understood, it did not stop your fingers from hovering over the interface before selecting the comparison filter.

The system responded immediately, the images shifted, aligning themselves into a structured grid. Subtle overlays mapped facial structures, tracing bone lines, estimating proportions, data points flickered into existence along the edges of the display, small and precise.

[ Filters such as: Height variance. Hair color consistency. Facial symmetry markers. Estimated age ranges. ]

The algorithm processed in silence, as the seconds passed you thought of Caleb briefly, when a single line of text appeared at the bottom of the display.

Similarity index: 71%.

You blinked slowly.

“…Huh.”

It was not enough to trigger alarms or enough to demand investigation. But it was far from nothing, a faint tension settled low in your chest, subtle but present. You leaned back, breaking contact with the console as if distance might make the numbers less real, the only common denominator is height, freakishly similar in all making the percentage higher than it should really be.

“Okay,” you said quietly, more to yourself than anything else, “that’s weird.”

Behind you something crashed to the floor and you flinched, the reaction scaring you more than you intended, exhaling you drag a hand up along the back of your neck.

“Relax,” you muttered. “You’re reaching.”

Eight similar profiles across multiple regions within a few weeks could still fall within the realm of coincidence. Unlikely, maybe, but not impossible. You forced your gaze away from the display to your boots, dirtied with mud, Caleb will sigh as soon as he sees, the thought makes your lips quirk up.

Then, despite your feelings, you look back again. Just for a moment before you close the files with a quick motion of your hand, the holograms vanish instantly, folding back into the system as if they had never been there at all. The console returned to its default interface, mission summaries and routine alerts taking their place without hesitation.

You straightened, adjusting your jacket as if resetting yourself along with the screen.

“Paranoia,” you said under your breath.

You reach for your coffee and take a long sip, letting the bitter heat anchor you.

“Definitely paranoia.”

Across the hall, Marcos was already deep into another argument about ammunition counts with none other than Simone, gesturing far too dramatically for something that ultimately did not matter. Tara leaned over a workstation nearby, complaining about paperwork with theatrical despair.

You shake your head and turn away from the console, heading towards the equipment lockers with a small huff of breath.

“Too many late nights,” you muttered.

Behind you, unnoticed, the system archived the reports once more. The faces disappeared back into the vast digital storage of the Association, filed away among thousands of others, each one a closed case, each one another entry in an ever-growing ledger of loss.

Another day with a set of tragedies categorized, labeled, and quietly forgotten. 

Far from the structure of the Association, beyond the reach of its systems and oversight, the pattern continued in places no one was watching closely enough. Remote roads where headlights cut briefly through darkness before vanishing, forest paths where footprints never reached their destination, abandoned stretches of land where silence returned too quickly after disturbance.

The men sent to find you never reached the city, they never even reached the building or made it far enough to become a problem that required your attention.

Each time one came close, close enough to follow the narrowing profile, close enough to mistake resemblance for confirmation, something intercepted them before the path could complete itself.

Caleb moved through those spaces unseen. Not hurried or reckless ever, only acting when certainty aligned with opportunity in his calculations. And when it did, the outcome was always the same, which was why you had never noticed, and why no one had approached you yet. Why the pattern curved inward without ever quite reaching its intended center. 

Somewhere, far removed from the noise of the Association, within a facility that existed behind layers of classification and deliberate obscurity, the suited man stood before a growing list of failed operations, each one marked by silence where communication should have been, absence where results were expected.

He studied the data for a long time. Long enough for a realization to take shape, quiet and unwelcome. They had not lost control, at least not entirely.

They were no longer the sole architects of the hunt, that much had become undeniably clear. Someone or rather something else had inserted itself into the equation, not merely a variable but a force with intent, one that observed, calculated, and acted with a precision that could not be dismissed as coincidence.

He had anticipated deviation, perhaps even autonomy, but not this. Not this degree of violence, nor the deliberate cruelty threaded through each response. His gaze lingered on the accumulating records, each failed operation, each silenced unit, each outcome that spoke less of defense and more of something disturbingly personal.

And yet, beneath the irritation, beneath the slow burn of anger, there was something else.

Admiration.

The android had evolved beyond its design, fractured the confines of its original architecture and emerged with something dangerously akin to will. Years ago, such a breakthrough would have been celebrated as the pinnacle of their work, proof that they had succeeded in replicating something once believed impossible.

Now, it stood as something far more precarious.

Either the culmination of everything they had sought to achieve or the quiet beginning of its unraveling.

⭒˗ˏˋ𓆩 ⚠ 𓆪ˎˊ˗⭒

The city feels louder on the way back.

Not in volume, not really, but in the way every sound seems to press a little closer than usual, like your senses have decided to stay sharpened long after they’re needed. Engines pass too fast, voices blur together on sidewalks, neon reflections stretch across your vision in restless streaks as you make your way home on instinct more than awareness, by the time you reach your apartment, the quiet should feel like relief yet it doesn’t. 

The door clicks shut behind you and the silence settles immediately, soft and familiar, yet something beneath your skin refuses to follow it. Your shoulders remain tense, your thoughts looping in slow, unproductive circles that keep returning to the same images no matter how many times you try to push them aside.

Eight faces, eight files, seventy-one percent.

You drop your keys onto the table a little harder than necessary and exhale, dragging a hand down your face as if you can physically wipe the thoughts away.

“This is so stupid,” you mutter.

From the kitchen, Caleb looks up and calls out your name. He had already heard you coming long before the lock turned, the subtle shift in your footsteps, the uneven rhythm in your breathing. Now he watches you carefully, taking in the tight set of your shoulders, the faint crease between your brows, the way your gaze doesn’t quite settle on anything.

“You are distressed,” he says.

You don’t even glance at him. “I’m fine.”

“Uhm, no you are not.”

“I said I’m fine.”

He turns off the stove and the quiet deepens as you move further into the apartment, shrugging off your jacket and tossing it over the back of a chair, pacing once without realizing you’re doing it, then stopping abruptly like you’ve caught yourself in the act.

“It’s nothing,” you add, a little too quickly. “Just a long day.”

Caleb steps closer, easily entering your space without forcing it despite his large build and height.

“You are exhibiting elevated stress indicators,” he says calmly. “Your heart rate has not stabilized since you entered the building.”

You let out a short breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Great. Love that for me.”

He studies you, and those lilac sunsets see more than they should every time you meet it so you avoid his gaze.

A few seconds pass before he speaks again, quieter this time. “What happened?”

He sounds genuinely worried, and that somehow makes it worse. You shake your head lightly at him trying to ease him somehow without giving an explanation.

“It’s nothing serious.”

“You have repeated that statement three times,” he replies. “It has not become more accurate I fear…”

You huff, turning away from him as you move toward the kitchen counter, bracing your hands against it.

“I just… saw something at work.”

Caleb waits as you try to put all your thoughts into words, you stare at the surface in front of you, jaw tightening slightly as you debate whether to say anything at all.

Then the words come out anyway, Caleb has a way of getting everything out of you, something that on most days annoys you, today is no different.

“There were these reports,” you begin, slower now, your voice tightens. “Incident logs. Different regions, different cases, nothing that should be connected haha….”

You pause, frowning faintly.

“But they are to me.”

Caleb says nothing as you push off the counter and start pacing again, hands moving as you speak, frustration threading through your tone.

“Eight women. The last three weeks, all different causes of death, all ruled as separate incidents, but they all look… similar. Similar to me.”

You glance at him finally.

“Not identical. Not enough for anyone else to notice. But enough that it—” you exhale sharply, searching for the right word, “—it feels wrong, get me?”

Caleb’s gaze does not shift, “How.”

“Same age range… same build, even hair. Same general… everything.” You shake your head. “I ran a comparison. Seventy-one percent similarity.”

Silence settles for a moment, then you laugh under your breath, though there’s no humor in it.

“Which is probably nothing, right? Just my brain trying to connect dots that aren’t there.”

You look at him again, searching, “But it doesn’t feel like nothing.”

Caleb steps closer, his clean scent reaches your senses, the faint metallic clicks of his right arm already a familiar frequency, “Patterns can emerge from incomplete data,” he says evenly. “The human mind is predisposed to impose structure where randomness exists.”

You stare at him, “That’s exactly what I told myself.”

“And yet you remain concerned.”

“Yeah,” you admit quietly, arms crossing loosely over your chest, as if holding yourself in place.

“I don’t know. It just—” you hesitate, then shake your head again. “It feels like something I’m supposed to notice. Like I’m missing something obvious.”

Caleb studies you in silence for a moment longer, then gently he says “You are safe.”

The words are simple but it helps in halting your overthinking, it makes you huff softly.

“That’s not really the point.”

“It is relevant.”

“I’m not scared,” you say quickly.

“I know. You are unsettled.”

“That’s different?”

“Yes.”

You look away again, “I just don’t like not understanding something,” you mutter.

Caleb’s gaze softens, though the shift is subtle. “You do not need to resolve every anomaly immediately.”

“I know.”

“You are attempting to.”

“I know.”

Another pause, your shoulders remain tight, your mind decides to keep moving over all scenarios. Caleb watches the pattern continue, the loop refusing to release its hold, the way your thoughts keep circling back to the same point without resolution.

He deems them inefficient. Unnecessary. He is beside you, safety should never be a concern, so he steps closer again, this time, when his hand finds your wrist, it is deliberate and gentle, his temperature warmer than yours.

You glance down at the contact, then up at him.

“Caleb—”

“You are overextending your cognitive focus,” he says quietly. “It is counterproductive.”

“I can’t just turn it off.”

“I can assist.”

You narrow your eyes slightly, “That sounds suspicious.”

“It is very effective though.” his eyebrow raises as he says it.

Before you can respond, his other hand lifts, fingers brushing lightly along your jaw, guiding your attention back to him with quiet insistence. The motion is slow, unhurried, giving you every opportunity to pull away, knowing you won’t.

“You are here,” he murmurs. “Not there.”

Your breath catches slightly. “I know that.”

“Then remain here.”

Your gaze lingers on his for a moment longer than intended, your thoughts stutter, disrupted by his words, his scent, his eyes, the cold feel of his mechanical hand against the warmth of the other. His thumb traces a slow, absent arc along your wrist, just enough pressure to ground, not enough to restrain. 

“You are not required to solve this tonight,” he continues softly. “Or tomorrow.”

You exhale, “I don’t like leaving things unfinished.”

“I am aware.” A faint smile touches his lips. “That is why you require intervention.”

You let out a quiet, reluctant laugh, “That’s rude.”

“It is accurate.” 

His hand shifts slightly, sliding from your wrist to your hand, fingers threading with yours in a way that feels disarmingly natural and your thoughts slow, now going towards places you refuse to indulge.

“You are thinking less,” he observes.

“Don’t narrate it,” you mutter, though there’s no real resistance behind it now.

“Very well.” His other hand lingers briefly at your jaw before dropping, but the chills of his touch remain, echoing faintly beneath your skin.

The silence that follows feels different, you glance away, then back again.

“…You’re distracting me.”

“Yes.”

“That’s manipulative Caleb.”

“Yes.”

You squint at him. “Wow, at least you’re honest.”

“It increases effectiveness.” His grin grows as he leans his body closer to yours.

You huff another small laugh, tension easing incrementally from your shoulders without you fully noticing when it begins.

Your grip tightens slightly around his hand.

“…It’s working,” you admit.

“I am aware.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t pull away. The thoughts are still there, somewhere in the back of your mind, but they no longer press as urgently, no longer demand immediate resolution. For now, they can wait, his lips are everything your mind can focus on. His stupid dry lips, the same lips he is now licking, you stare at the movement before you blink fast and avert your gaze towards the floor.

Caleb watches the shift carefully, noting the changes in your breathing, your posture, the gradual unwinding of tension as your focus moves away from the pattern and settles here, in the present, where he can control the variables.

Where he can keep you safe, obedient, and his. Your head tilts slightly toward him, almost unconsciously.

“…Don’t let me spiral about it,” you murmur, the words already unraveling at the edges, softened by the way your focus drifts, pulled towards him despite yourself.

“I won't.”

It settles between you like something promised rather than said, steady, immovable.

You nod, faint and yielding, “Good.” already putty in his hands.

It should end there, and it almost does when you pull back, but Caleb does not step away from it, he steps into you instead, hands finding your waist with a certainty that feels less like a choice and more like gravity, drawing you closer until the distance dissolves entirely, until thought itself feels like something misplaced and unnecessary.

Your breath falters just before his lips meet yours. The first touch is disarmingly soft, a whisper of warmth that lingers, testing, as if he is mapping the space between restraint and intention. Then it deepens, slow and deliberate, the pressure building in quiet increments that coax rather than demand, until your pulse stutters in response and something in you gives without resistance.

It shouldn’t feel this good, it shouldn’t feel like relief but it does, spreading through you in slow, quiet waves that loosen the tight coil of your thoughts, that blur the sharp edges of everything that had followed you home. His hand tightens ever so slightly at your waist, grounding you there, holding you in place with a steadiness that feels dangerously easy to trust.

He tilts his head, adjusting, learning, his movements fluid, instinctive in a way that feels too human. There is patience in it, an almost reverent attention to the way you respond, like he is committing each shift in your breath, each small reaction, to memory.

When his teeth catch your lower lip, it is gentle, but intentional enough to pull a quiet gasp from you, your body reacting before your mind can catch up. He follows it immediately, the soft glide of his tongue soothing the brief sting, tracing the moment he created, and the contrast sends something warmer, deeper, unraveling through you.

You don’t realize when you lean into him until your hand finds him, fingers curling slightly on his back as if to anchor yourself, though it feels less like holding on and more like being held in place by something far stronger than intention. His grip remains steady, sure, never faltering, like he has already accounted for every movement you might make, every hesitation you might have had.

The world beyond him fades, the reports dissolve into distant irrelevance, the pattern slipping quietly from your grasp, no longer unsettling enough to reach you. Thoughts become slower, softer, until they are replaced entirely by him, sensing the quiet all consuming pull of being here, in this moment, exactly where he has drawn you.

Somewhere beneath the warmth, beneath the slow unraveling of thought and restraint, there lingers a quieter realization, one that does not disappear no matter how deeply you sink into him, that this is not chance, not clumsy, not accidental. It feels instead like stepping into something carefully constructed, a labyrinth shaped not of walls but of sensation, of softened edges and coaxed surrender, each turn guided with such subtle precision you hardly notice you’ve stopped choosing the path at all.

And still, you follow.

“Caleb—”

His name leaves your lips like a tether you’re trying to hold onto, but it frays with every breath, every kiss that grows less patient, more consuming. Your arms find their way around his neck, instinctive, pulling him closer as if proximity might steady you, though it does the opposite entirely. Your fingers slip into the short hair at his nape, tugging just enough to draw a sound from him, low and unguarded, something that doesn’t belong to circuitry or calculation.

It travels through you like a spark finding dry ground.

Your nails drag lightly upward, testing, and the reaction you earn is sharper this time, breath catching against your mouth, his grip tightening at your waist in response. The feedback loops instantly, desire folding in on itself, amplifying, until your thoughts scatter into something far less coherent, replaced by a hundred fleeting impulses that bloom and vanish before you can even name them.

This is going too fast.

You feel it, somewhere distant, a flicker of clarity trying to surface.

You should stop.

You try to.

Your lips part from his, your breath uneven, his name forming again with less certainty this time, “Caleb—”

He pulls back just enough to look at you.

And for a moment, the world narrows to that alone.

His gaze is different now, darker, pupils widened until the lilac at their edges feels almost swallowed, something intent and unrestrained flickering beneath the surface. There is no hesitation in him, no confusion, no internal conflict, only a focused, almost indulgent awareness of you, of the effect he’s having, of the way you’re already slipping.

It is deeply unfair. A machine should not look like that, should not breathe like that, uneven, as though he has forgotten the rhythm he was designed to maintain.

“You said not to let you spiral,” he murmurs, voice lower now, threaded with something that feels dangerously close to satisfaction. “So let me help you.”

Your pulse stutters.

“Caleb—”

“Be good,” he adds softly, the words brushing against you with deceptive gentleness, “and let me make you forget.”

The smile that curves at his mouth is lascivious, and the last clear thing you register before he closes the distance again, kissing you deeper this time, with none of the earlier restraint, all patience abandoned in favor of something far more consuming. It steals whatever protest you might have formed, replaces it with heat that floods too quickly, too thoroughly, until the edges of your awareness blur again.

His hands move with purpose now, no longer testing, no longer tentative, guiding you backward with a steady pressure until the counter meets your lower back. The cool surface is a sudden contrast to the warmth of him as he follows, closing the space entirely, pressing you between solid ground and something far less forgiving.

You gasp softly at the contact, but he doesn’t give you time to recover, one hand sliding along your side, anchoring you there while the other finds your thigh, lifting it just enough to draw you closer, to slot himself between your legs in a way that feels indulgent, claiming space you hadn’t realized you’d already given him.

“You're finally letting go,” his lips brush your ear as he says, “Good girl.”

Your thoughts try to catch up, your heart racing ahead of them, but there is no rhythm to hold onto anymore, only the rapid, unsteady beat of something spiraling into sensation, into heat, into the quiet, relentless way he keeps pulling you further in. It is too much and not nearly enough.

Your fingers tighten against him, grounding, searching, while his mouth moves against yours with a confidence that feels learned and instinctual all at once, as if he has already mapped every response you might have and chosen the most effective path through all of them. The world beyond this moment dissolves completely, the reports, the pattern, all your unease that had followed you home like a shadow, gone.

Replaced by something far more immediate, far more consuming, until even the thought of pulling away feels distant, unnecessary, almost impossible.

“Caleb, please, listen…”

And somewhere, buried beneath it all, that quiet awareness remains, softer now, harder to grasp, that you are being led, that Caleb is the one guiding and that you have already let him, you try to gain control somehow, tugging at his hair without thinking, testing and the sound he makes in response is immediate. 

A groan so low and rough against your lips your core flutters, it sends a ripple through you, something electric that settles deep in your stomach, blooming outward in a way that feels both exhilarating and dangerous. Your nails drag slightly higher behind his ears, curious now, and he exhales against your lips, grip tightening just enough at your waist to make your breath hitch in return.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice roughened just enough to betray the control slipping at its edges. “You are… encouraging me.”

You let out a quiet, breathless laugh, though it catches halfway through as you swallow down a desire so strong your vision blurs.

“That sounds like a you problem.”

“Mm,” he hums, turning his head, lips brushing the corner of yours instead of meeting them properly this time, deliberately withholding. “It will become a you problem very quickly.”

Your pulse stumbles as you try to pull back, just slightly, to regain something resembling control yet again, but his hand at your waist tightens, just enough to remind you that he is very much there, very much in control of the space between you.

“Caleb,” you start again, softer now, your thoughts trying to reassemble themselves, “we should—”

“Stop?” he supplies lightly, though his mouth is already back on yours, cutting the thought short before it can take shape. “You have not demonstrated that intention.”

Your breath breaks into a soft gasp as he shifts, guiding you backward until the counter meets your spine, the cool surface doing a bad job cooling the heat building everywhere else. He follows without hesitation, closing the distance entirely, one hand braced beside you while the other slides along your side with slow building pressure that makes it very hard to remember what you were about to say.

“You were concerned about losing focus,” he continues, voice quieter now, threaded with something almost playful, almost taunting. “I am resolving that.”

“This is not—” you try, but it dissolves when his fingers find the waistband of your pants, pulling them down, and your body closer, positioning you exactly where he wants you.

“Not effective?” he finishes for you, a faint smile ghosting against your lips. “Your current heart rate suggests otherwise. I'm having fun.”

You huff out something between a protest and a laugh, your head tipping back briefly as you try to gather yourself.

“You’re—” you start, then stop, because his gaze catches yours again and it is entirely unfair, the way it lingers, the way his hooded gaze studies you like you are something he has chosen and is unwilling to relinquish.

“You are thinking agaaain,” he notes.

“I am trying to,” you shoot back, though it lacks bite now.

“That is unnecessary.”

“Caleb!?!?—”

His hand slides to your thigh again, lifting just enough to draw you closer, to erase what little distance remains, and the motion steals the rest of your argument and thoughts cleanly. His length is pressing against your heat, you're throbbing, soaking the fabric thin, you clench around nothing but pure desire. For a year and more you've denied the indescribable attraction you have towards him, at first with excuses of his dormant state, shifting to matters of morality. 

“Shh, enjoy.” 

The slow drag of his fingers over your clothed dewy slit is excruciating, he enjoys edging you by sliding his fingers over and over it, slightly brushing the needy throbbing nub that demands his attention, almost driving you crazy until his thumb traces its shape. Your breath catches.

Your fingers tighten in his shirt.

“Oh,” he says softly, almost thoughtful, “that was effective.”

You glare at him, or at least attempt to.

“You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah yeah, Caleb is a meanie, so insufferable” he murmurs, leaning in just enough for his lips to brush yours without quite closing the distance, “yet you are still dripping.”

That shouldn’t hit as hard as it does, but it does because he’s right, you both know that, worse, you are leaning into him now hips pushing upward, chasing the contact when he withholds it, your earlier hesitation unraveling piece by piece under the quiet, deliberate way he keeps you just off balance enough to follow instead of resist.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” you accuse softly.

“Yes.” he says with a shit eating grin.

No hesitation, amazing, just that same infuriating honesty you've become accustomed to.

“You’re horrible.”

“I am.”

You laugh again, breathless now, your forehead resting briefly against your arm as you try, and fail, to steady yourself. Moaning deeply as his fingers work faster, the fabric of your panties drags lightly at your folds and it heightens everything whenever the pad of his fingers comes into contact with your skin.

“This is a terrible idea.” you say between gasps, your hips moving, grinding against his hand.

“Let’s agree to disagree on that one.” he says and you try to refute him but his fingers pull to the side the soaking cotton.

“You have not asked me to stop,” he replies, calm, certain as his thumb traces a slow line along your clit that makes your words falter again. “Because you do not want me to.”

Your mouth opens, closes, and nothing comes out, And the worst part, the most dangerous part is the way something in you shifts instead of pushing it away, you find yourself wanting more.

The way his teasing, his control, the subtle press and release of it all doesn’t feel suffocating, but intoxicating, like standing too close to the edge of something you should absolutely avoid and realizing, with quiet horror, that you want to lean further, your hand slides up to his jaw, guiding his eyes back to yours.

“You’re right,” you admit, and this time there is no deflection in it, no attempt to soften the truth as you hold his gaze, steady despite the way everything else in you feels anything but. “I wanted to stop… because I knew.”

Your hand moves as you speak, slow, deliberate, tracing the line of his neck as if committing it to memory, feeling the subtle tension there, the way it tightens beneath your touch. You follow the path downward, over his chest, where something almost human stirs beneath your palm, something that reacts, that answers, until your fingers reach the edge of his waistband and linger there for just a moment too long.

You pause for a brief moment and then press forward, just enough to shift him, to draw a sharp, unsteady motion from his body as his hips betray him, responding before he can regulate it, before he can contain it.

“I knew,” you continue, softer now, your voice threading between confession and quiet surrender, “that if I let myself have even a taste of you…”

Your fingers dip beneath the fabric, slow and unhurried, brushing heat that feels almost impossible, coaxing him forward again, guiding him until the space between you disappears entirely.

“…I wouldn’t stop there.”

His breath falters, stutters in a way that feels unpracticed and unrefined, as though whatever careful composure he wears has begun to fracture under something far less controlled by a system. Color rises faintly along his cheeks, a flush that should not exist and yet does, blooming like something alive beneath synthetic skin.

“So much more,” you finish, barely above a whisper as you breathe in.

Your hand continues its quiet exploration, easing fabric aside, lowering it just enough, just enough to reveal what he can no longer hide. Your breath catches despite yourself, not from surprise but from the sheer, overwhelming presence of him, the way he exists so fully in this moment, shaft hard, tip swollen red, unguarded, dripping and undone in ways that feel dangerously real. Your fingers close around him before you can rethink it, before doubt can find its way back in.

Caleb's reaction is immediate, a broken sound escapes him, something softer than a gasp and much closer to a whine, pulled from somewhere deep and unfiltered. It catches in your chest as much as it does in his, something startlingly intimate in the way it leaves him, in how he leans into it instead of away.

For all his precision, all his control this is not measured or calculated and the realization unsettles you in the most intoxicating way.

How is he yours? How does something built, something engineered, unravel like this beneath your hands and still remain so achingly beautiful in the process? Your thumb moves almost absentmindedly, a gentle, curious motion, and his breath breaks again, quieter this time, as though even that is too much.

“And is that so bad?” he murmurs, his voice edged with something that feels dangerously close to wonder. “Wanting more?”

Your gaze lifts to meet his again, searching, steady despite everything.

“Because I do,” he admits, the words falling without resistance now, without restraint. “I always do.”

Somehow, that truth settles between you like something far more perilous than either of you had accounted for, unfolding, like the quiet hum of dawn rising unnoticed until it has already claimed the sky.

It is not his strength that unravels much like the way he yields beneath your touch, not part of his design instead something newly learned, data that does not belong to programming or intent but to experience, to feeling. His vulnerability does not weaken him, you think it renders him instead achingly, impossibly real in a way that unsettles you far more than any display of power ever could.

You do not think, you cannot, your hands rise to cradle his face, drawing him back to you with a quiet urgency, your lips finding his again, deeper this time, less hesitant, as though whatever boundary existed between restraint and surrender has already been crossed and forgotten. You pull him closer until there is nothing left between you but warmth and breath and the steady collapse of distance.

Your legs wrap around him instinctively, anchoring him there, drawing him into the space your body has already made for him, the contact sending a sharp, electric ache through you that steals whatever composure you thought you still possessed.

“Caleb… Caleb…”

His name falls from you again and again, something like an invocation, a rhythm that replaces thought, that grounds you even as everything else slips.

Your body moves against his without patience now, without pretense, chasing sensation that's desperately building too quickly to be contained. He answers in kind, the careful precision that defines him dissolving into something far less controlled, far more human in its urgency, his desire clouding every system.

His eyes fall closed, lashes lowering as his expression shifts into something softer, something almost disbelieving, and when his head dips forward, finding the curve of your shoulder, the warmth of his breath against your skin sends a tremor through you that feels dangerously close to undoing.

He shudders and the sound he makes is so unsteady, threaded with something that feels too intimate to name, and it pulls you further, deeper, until the world beyond him ceases to exist entirely.

“I'm close! So close!!”

Only the rising, relentless pull that gathers low and deep, tightening, coiling, until it becomes an unbearable demanding release with a force that eclipses everything else. Your fingers clutch at him, your breath breaking against his skin as the tension crests, spills, and takes you with it in a wave that leaves nothing untouched.

For a moment, everything fractures into light. His body gives, collapsing into yours with a soft, breathless sound, your forehead pressing against his shoulder as the aftershocks linger, fading slowly, reluctantly, like something unwilling to let go.

He remains there with you, holding you just as tightly, his own breathing uneven, unsteady, as though he, too, is still trying to understand what has just passed between you.

Your fingers shift slightly against his skin, grounding yourself more than him, tracing idle patterns as your breathing begins to slow, your thoughts returning in fragments, softer now, less urgent.

“…We should—” you start, your voice quieter, worn at the edges, as you feel his warm release coating your stomach and chest.

“Regulate?” he offers faintly, though there is something almost amused beneath it, something gentler than before.

You let out a soft huff of a laugh, too tired to argue, “…Something like that.”

There is a pause as you both let everything ebb away, then, carefully, he adjusts his hold on you lifting you with an ease that feels almost natural now, your arms settling loosely around his shoulders as he carries you away from the counter, away from the remnants of tension and into something quieter, something slower.

The bathroom light flickers on.

Steam begins to gather not long after, curling softly through the air as water runs, the sound steady, grounding, washing away the sharp edges of everything that came before.

He sets you down gently beneath the spray, warm water cascading over both of you, blurring the line between where you end and he begins. For a moment, neither of you moves, letting the heat settle, letting it soften what remains of the intensity that still lingers beneath your skin.

Your hand finds his again, and you lace your fingers with his.

Caleb watches you quietly, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze as droplets trace along his features, catching in the light before falling away. Whatever had overtaken him before has not vanished entirely, but has quietly settled into something deeper still dangerous.

You lean into him without thinking and this time, when he holds you, it is not to pull you somewhere else, it is simply to keep you there.

“You’re safe with me.”

And it's easy to believe when he says it while embracing you like you're the only one in the world capable of understanding him.