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Caleb isn’t eating again, you note. He’s beside you, scribbling down notes for something airplane-related; you don’t really care, too focused on the uneaten plate in front of him. It’s a little annoying, really, because Caleb brought lunch over for the both of you. He had been meticulous in feeding you, offering up bites without even blinking an eye and looking like a bright puppy for validation on his cooking.
And then once you finished, he’d turned to finish up some paperwork, leaving his own plate untouched.
“Are you going to finish that?” You ask finally, leaning on your hand.
Caleb perks up. “No, do you want it?” And without a second thought, he’s pushing the plate towards you. “If you need me to cook more, then—“
“I want you to finish it.” You answer patiently. Because Caleb has always been a little iffy on food, to say the least. He joked about it a lot when you were kids, saying he had to keep in tip-top shape if he wanted to progress into being an airspace colonel; then he had to be careful with his body. Almost every teenage boy you knew plowed through plate upon plate of food, but Caleb always showed an inhumane level of self-control.
“Why’s that, pipsqueak? You don’t like my cooking anymore?” He teases with a light smile but makes no move to take the plate back.
Of course, if you tried anything similar, it was treated like an offense of the highest order. Because you were different and Caleb is super strong and capable, and he can handle skipping out on breakfast and lunch and dinner but you? No way! Sit down; I’m making you your favorite.
It’s—
“You’ve been busy, right?” You push the plate towards him. “I never see you eat breakfast; you are always doing something when I call during lunch, and you pick at your food during dinner.”
You wish he cared about himself more. You wish Caleb cared about himself even a fraction of what he cared about you. “Your cooking is really good, Caleb,” you add on as an afterthought. “I think you should try it more.”
Caleb smiles; you see the dark circles under his eyes, and you wish—“Alright then, if it’s what MC wishes, then who am I to deny you?”
Not exactly the answer you were looking for, but you hold your tongue as Caleb finally takes a bite of noodles and vegetables. He chews mechanically like he was eating straight rubber. “They say a chef doesn’t get better at cooking without trying out his own food first.” You say. “You don’t want to fall out of practice.”
Caleb hums. “Are you scolding me? Ah, times have really changed.”
When you eat with Caleb, he always does end up eating something. But you can’t be with Caleb 24/7, and if he isn’t with you, then he doesn’t eat, so what would happen if you went away for a while again? You know he’s strong, he’s relatively healthy. There’s those foul-tasting protein powders and supplements he takes to make up for any nutrients he misses out on, but he shouldn’t need to take any of those in the first place!
If the roles were reversed— Well, the roles would never be reversed in the first place. Caleb wouldn’t let you get away with any of this shit.
“You know Zayne eats three meals a day; I think you should start too.”
Caleb’s expression flickers. Going from a quiet content to borderline annoyance. “Why are we talking about Zayne.”
“Do you think you can start making breakfast and lunch for yourself?” You ignore his comment because that’s an entirely different can of worms for a different time.
“I do,” Caleb starts, but you stop him.
“You make it for me; I’ve never seen another bento box in here.”
“Okay, alright, I’ll start making food for myself too.” Caleb agrees with an uneasy look.
At the center of it, you wish Caleb did it for himself. “And I want you to start sleeping more too—“
“Now wait a second, this is coming from you—“
“I take care of myself fine.” You deadpan. You sigh, suddenly feeling a little off-kilter and wobbly. “Caleb—I know a lot has happened,” an understatement of the century.
Because it’s scary. Before you could excuse it under a young man wanting to better himself, this rigorous attitude Caleb had, the high standards and unyielding discipline. But now? Caleb just doesn’t seem to care about himself at all. As if he’s drowning and the only thing keeping him resurfacing is yourself plastered in the sky.
You swallow, feeling tears starting to build at the back of your eyes. You don’t want him to live like that. You being a hunter or otherwise, it’s not healthy; it’s not safe. If you were to die tomorrow, you would want Caleb to keep going on, to be happy. “Can’t you start being nicer to yourself?” You whisper, blinking rapidly to try to keep the tears at bay. “I mean, you work so much every day, and I know why you do it, but—“
“Your crying.” Fuck, you are. You close your eyes tight, head to the ground while Caleb’s chair screeches with his quick movements. Caleb’s hands cup your cheeks, and they feel overwhelmingly warm with your sight cut off. “Hey, hey, tell me why are you crying? You don’t need to cry over me, pipsqueak; I’m doing fine. We have to go through health check-ups all the time; you think I’d be allowed to man my fleet if I wasn’t in tip-top shape?”
“If you want me to stop,” you manage out between the half-sobs. “Then you’ll start taking care of yourself, Caleb; I’m serious.”
You open your eyes, flinching at the feeling of salt. It’s all blurry, but you can make out Caleb’s concerned features from here. He nods, thumb coming up to wipe away a stray tear that’s making its way down your cheek. “Okay, I’ll plan a vacation for us soon, whatever you want.”
Whatever you want? You sigh in defeat. Maybe one day the message will be translated properly.