Chapter 3: Feeding the Fire

After that night, it was like I’d found the cheat code to Caleb’s world.

It became a twisted little game—one only I seemed to understand. Some mornings I’d wake up buzzing, wondering if today was the day I’d finally break him out of his shell for good. It was dangerous, but it made the days feel less heavy.

Caleb usually refused to eat. I’d slide my hand under his shirt, acting playful while really checking for any changes. I’d whisper nonsense, tracing my fingers over his abs and feeling his body tense under my touch.

"Honey, let me check if your abs are fading. Oh, and while we’re talking muscles, your..."

I left the words hanging, teasing both of us. Caleb trembled, cheeks flushed.

“Want something to eat?”

His mouth set in a stubborn line, but the color in his cheeks made him look younger, more vulnerable.

Caleb wasn’t just autistic—he was stubborn as hell.

He glared at the wall, arms folded. "No."

I straddled him. "I’m hungry. If you won’t eat, I’ll just eat."

My voice was low and challenging. Caleb’s pupils widened, but he looked away. "No."

"Come on, when a guy says no, he usually means yes. If you’re not eating, you’re just playing hard to get."

I let out a laugh, light but with an edge. Tension radiated off him. He shook his head, ears burning red.

Blushing, he repeated, "No."

His protest sounded small—defiant, but almost hoping I’d ignore it. So I did. I ignored his words and took what I wanted.

Afterward, I watched him finally pick up his fork. For the first time, Caleb ate two extra bowls of mac and cheese.

Maybe it was the comfort food—Kraft mac and cheese, gooey and neon-bright, the blue box still sitting on the counter. Under the soft kitchen light, it was the only thing that made him smile, even a little.

He started spending late nights brooding over a diary. I knew it was his secret crush diary for the female lead. But he’d never get her. So I swiped the diary.

The cover was worn, corners dog-eared. I wanted to read it all, but settled for teasing him. Caleb snatched for it, anger flashing in his eyes.

"Aww, what sweet love! The air’s practically full of pink bubbles."

He stiffened, color draining from his face. I flipped a few pages, laughing. "Oh, and speaking of pink, babe, yours is pretty pink too."

I grabbed his most sensitive spot, and he melted with a groan. After that, he never took the diary out again.

It felt like a win—a guilty, twisted win. I told myself I was saving him from heartbreak, but really, I just wanted to keep him close. From then on, I doubled down on dragging him to bed. My signature line:

"Babe, I can listen to all your family drama, but you know what I’m going to do next."

It became our routine—the rhythm of our strange days. On some level, I hoped it would either break him open or stitch him back together. Maybe both.