Chapter 7: Cold Games, Warm Kitchen

But the colder I got, the more clingy he became. He practically wanted to be glued to me 24/7, terrified I’d run away.

I felt suffocated, like I couldn’t breathe in my own home. The house was big, full of light and old hardwood, but Caleb filled every corner—hovering behind me as I made coffee, watching me fold laundry, even peeking at me through the cracked door when I took a call.

I got an idea.

"Honey, I’m going out to buy groceries. Want to come?"

I tried to make it sound casual, but my heart was pounding. Caleb immediately shook his head. "No, I’ll wait at home."

Heh, I left right away. But of course, I wasn’t really buying groceries.

As soon as I left, my phone buzzed with a storm of group chat notifications:

[Whose shy guy is secretly following the MC out?]

[Antihero, will you cringe when you remember your sneaky dog look at midnight?]

I smirked, ducking into my car. I sat in a Sephora, pretending to check my reflection, but really watching Caleb trailing behind me. He wore black clothes and a mask, lurking behind the counter.

He looked so out of place among the perfume displays and makeup counters—like a lost teenager playing spy. The air was thick with perfume samples, and the sales clerk’s acrylic nails tapped impatiently on the glass counter as Caleb lingered nearby.

The clerk came over. "Sir, can I help you?"

"N-no, I’m just looking."

His voice wobbled. Caleb lowered his head and scurried away. Halfway through my makeup, I caught him spying from another corner. I just wanted some air—who knew this antihero would go full stalker on me?

So, in the morning, I left the makeup store. At noon, I ate at a crowded diner. The waitress dragged Caleb in; he got so nervous he stabbed his fork through his mask. At three, I went to a private spa, and Caleb kept getting bumped by rowdy kids. At six, I got a massage and let the masseur feed me fruit. At nine, I played pool, flirting with the guy at the table. At midnight, I went home on time.

It became a game for me, too—watching him try to keep up, sweating through every new social encounter. I almost felt bad, but not enough to stop.

I did this for several days. Caleb followed me every day, but always managed to get home before me, changing into all sorts of outfits to cook for me. I was dazzled by his efforts.

Today was the same. Hearing me come in, he turned around, spatula in hand, giving me a smile uglier than crying.

"You’re back. I made you food."

His voice was soft, hopeful. He looked so proud, so nervous. I replied coldly, steeling myself. In the back of my mind, I remembered my last relationship—how being soft only got me hurt. I’d learned to keep my guard up, no matter how much I wanted to let it down.

Today, Caleb wore a pink cat apron. Shirtless, just in pants. The apron’s belt hugged his narrow waist. His arms were muscular but lean, his back smooth, waist dimples sexy as hell.

I swallowed hard, but forced myself to stay cool.

"I’m not hungry."

"Okay, I’ll put it away."

He hurried to tidy up.

"You don’t need to cook for me anymore."

Caleb froze, then pretended nothing happened and kept cleaning.

"I have to."

He stubbornly insisted.

"What if you get hungry?"

"I’ll eat out or order DoorDash."

I tried to sound dismissive, but the hurt in his eyes nearly broke me. Caleb’s lips drooped, eyes full of hurt. The skin around his eyes reddened, he looked away quickly, a tear falling straight onto his apron.

He scrubbed at his face with his sleeve, pretending not to notice. "It’s okay. Cooking isn’t hard. And I won’t always cut my hand."

He hid his bandaged finger behind his back, blinking away tears and forcing a smile, like a puppy pretending to be happy.

I wanted to tell him to stop, to just sit down and let me take care of him for once—but the words stuck in my throat.

"Caleb, don’t you have your own things to do?"

Hearing that, the light in his eyes died. He froze, then looked away, voice aggrieved:

"I did my own thing today."

His voice was so small, I almost missed it. "What did you do?"

"I got a haircut."

He looked up. Only then did I notice his bangs were shorter, revealing his sharp brow bone and beautiful eyes. My heart skipped a beat. Now, those beautiful eyes were full of tears, lashes wet, the corners of his eyes and nose red, making me want to ruin him.

"You said you liked it."

He said it so simply, it made my chest ache. I’m not someone who melts at a few tears. In my old life, my parents begged me to marry a dull man for my brother’s sake. I got tired of their tears and my own weakness. So I became forceful, always taking the lead. Even that dull man wanted to sleep with me before marriage because I was so dominant. I couldn’t stand it, and got in a car accident while away. My parents barely managed a few crocodile tears.

It’s the same here. I don’t believe anyone will just give in to me. But with Caleb, I can’t quite see through him.

Group chat notifications scrolled:

[Just sleep with him already, he’s about to hug you!]

[Imagine someone who brings lunch to avoid talking to people—how did he even communicate with the barber to get the haircut his wife likes?]

[Isn’t he just like a puppy, staring at you, desperate for you to notice his new look, but you’re giving him the cold shoulder.]

[Big women should see this—why’s the little man crying? All the luck in this house is being cried away by you.]

[Is MC being too much?]

[Will the antihero still go after the heroine in the end? Is MC just a bug in the plot? I ship them so hard.]

[Don’t judge MC—only the wearer knows if the shoes fit. We don’t really know, so let’s not judge.]

Caleb suddenly hugged me, burying his face in my neck.

"Don’t leave me, okay?"

He pulled me onto his lap, hot tears soaking my chest.

I melted, just a little. My hand found its way to his hair, smoothing it back from his forehead. He clung to me like a life raft.

"Caleb, I know you’ve been following me lately."

He paused, voice trembling: "Sorry."

"Sorry? Will you do it again?"

He ducked his head, voice barely above a whisper, but his eyes flicked up, searching my face for forgiveness. He held me tighter, carefully slipping my clothes aside.

"Hotels are just hotels. Only here is home. Babe, I’m glad you’re willing to come home."

His words shocked me to my core. Caleb took my hand and slipped it under his apron. His skin was warm—smooth, soft, and firm all at once. I didn’t pull away. I wondered, for the first time, if home wasn’t just a place, but a person. Maybe, just maybe, I’d found mine.

His arms locked around me, and for the first time, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to escape—or stay.