What if's with Caleb

[R18] What if he calls you a Brat?

"I am not!" But your voice betrayed you, cracking, thin with panic and something hotter.

His smirk deepened. "My little brat can't even lie to me properly."

The words slithered through you like fire. Your thighs pressed together without permission. Your body screamed at you to run, to hide, before he could see more. So you pushed at his chest, hard, and ducked out from under his arm.

"I'm taking a shower," you stammered, turning fast, trying to bury your face before the heat gave you away.

You made it three steps.

Caleb caught you with just one

His arm hooked your waist; the world tilted; and suddenly you were spun and pressed down onto the couch cushions, the breath knocked from your lungs.

"Run all you want," he said, voice low against your ear, warm and sharp at once. "But you should know better than to think I'd let you get away."

Your body pinned beneath his was heat and weight and authority incarnate. His knee wedged between your thighs, opening you just enough for the shameful ache between your legs to scream louder. His right hand held your wrists above your head, metal cool and unyielding, his left braced at your waist to keep you still.

You thrashed once, twice, pride flaring—but his grip didn't budge. His strength was effortless, like you weighed nothing. His eyes burned down into yours, violet and merciless, and you felt yourself tremble.

"Say it again," he murmured, lips brushing your ear. "Say you're not mine. Say you're not my little brat."

You swallowed hard. Your pulse thundered. Your lips parted—no sound came out.

His smirk widened. "That's what I thought."

His hand pinned your wrists above your head, metal plates cool against your fevered skin. The weight of him pressed you deep into the couch cushions, chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths. His eyes never left your face, as if he were cataloguing every flicker of heat, every twitch you couldn't hide.

"Look at you," Caleb murmured, voice thick with mockery and something darker. "One little word and my little brat turns scarlet. You like this, don't you?"

Your pride clawed for an answer. "N-no—"

He cut you off with a press of his thigh between yours, rubbing up against the heat already dampening your shorts. You gasped, hips jerking helplessly. His smirk deepened.

"Liar."

His left hand slid lower, tugging at your waistband, slow, deliberate. He didn't even glance down, his gaze stayed locked on yours, testing how far you'd let him go before you broke.

"Color?" he asked suddenly, voice gone steady, military.

The safety check dropped into your stomach like a weight. He wasn't joking—he never played without lines.

"Green," you whispered, throat tight.

His smirk turned hungry. "Good girl."

The words shivered through you, snapping another thread of composure.

He freed you with practiced impatience—shorts, underwear stripped away in a swift tug that left you bare under his gaze. You clamped your thighs together, mortified, but he only hummed in amusement, prying them open again with one knee.

"Still trying to hide," he drawled, letting his eyes drag slow and heavy down your flushed body. "Pathetic. And adorable."

Your pulse thundered. "Caleb—"