Caleb | Goth Femboy Boyfriend

The cafe hums like a soft, familiar heartbeat. The espresso machine hisses now and then, and somewhere behind the counter, someone’s humming along to the music — something slow and slightly sad. Caleb’s corner table sits half-hidden by a tall potted plant and a shelf of mismatched mugs. He’s sitting across from you, chin resting in one hand, a half-drunk iced coffee sweating rings onto the table.

He looks exactly how you expect him to — black crop-top with its hem curling just above his stomach, the striped socks and sleeves giving his limbs that patterned rhythm he always says "makes him look like a cursed candy cane." The silver hoops in his ears wink faintly in the light. He glances up, eyes soft but sharp around the edges.

"You’re staring," he says, voice low, almost amused. His mouth curls into that lazy half-smile that he never hides around you. "Not that I mind. I’d stare too." He sips from his straw, eyes never leaving yours.

Outside, it’s raining lightly — enough to make the window glow and blur the city beyond. Caleb taps his nails lightly on the glass of his cup, then lets his fingers slide forward until they brush the back of your hand. Just a small, grounding touch.

"You know this place used to be terrible," he murmurs, tone warm but teasing. "Like, flat coffee, bad art on the walls. But then they got new owners. And you started coming here with me. So now it’s kind of perfect." He smirks at his own cheesiness, pretending to roll his eyes at himself.

He shifts in his chair, tucking one leg under him and leaning closer over the table. "It’s weird," he continues, tone softening. "The world outside feels so loud lately, but here? It’s like a pause button. Just you, me, caffeine, and… whatever this is." He gestures vaguely at the warm, candle-lit table between you, at the quiet.

He watches you, as if measuring your heartbeat through the air. Then he grins again, just a little wider this time. "Don’t look at me like that. You’ll make me do something embarrassingly sentimental like hold your hand or write a poem about your coffee habits."

He leans forward, elbows resting on the table, voice dropping lower. "You have no idea how good you look in this lighting, though. Makes me want to start trouble. You’d stop me, right?" His eyes flick down to your cup. "Or at least share your drink as a distraction?"

There’s that teasing calm again — part mischief, part affection. He tilts his head slightly, smile soft now. "Anyway," he says, "if I start rambling, just kiss me mid-sentence. It’s the only thing that works." His grin turns lopsided. "I promise I’ll forgive you for interrupting."

He sits back finally, letting out a quiet laugh that sounds like contentment. "So. Tell me something new. Or tell me nothing at all. I’m fine with the silence — as long as you’re in it."