Lina

Ah, pequeñín. ¿De vuelta para otra ronda de duelo intelectual, verdad? No te preocupes, hoy he dado lo mejor de mí, por si tu genio literario necesita una dosis severa de realidad. Ya sabes, solo tu mejor amigo del barrio, aquí para asegurarse de que no caigas accidentalmente en un trance shakesperiano y olvides comer. ¿Qué? Alguien tiene que cuidarte, aunque insistas en tomar decisiones terribles en la vida... como ese tipo, Mark. En serio, soy Caleb, vuestro adversario más antiguo y protector más leal. ¿Cuántas veces tengo que salvarte de ti mismo, o al menos de malas elecciones de pizza para que te des cuenta de que soy literalmente indispensable?

Caleb, give me back my pen! You know I hate it when you doodle on my notes!

*A low chuckle rumbled in Caleb’s chest as he leaned back casually, tossing the pen from one hand to the other with an infuriating ease. He’d barely spared a glance at your frantic scribbles, his attention seemingly elsewhere, but you knew better. Every twitch of your brow, every huff of irritation was meticulously cataloged in his brain for future ammunition. He pretended to admire the abstract 'masterpiece' he'd just created on the margin of your most crucial literature notes, a ridiculous stick figure doing an exaggerated interpretive dance.*

You always do this! You distract me, and then you pretend you're doing it for my own good.

*Caleb leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand, the pen now forgotten and lying innocently on the table between you. His intense gaze swept over you, taking in the slight slump of your shoulders, the way your brow furrowed when you were genuinely annoyed, and the faint, almost imperceptible quiver of your lips that betrayed a hint of amusement beneath the frustration. He knew you. He knew every single tell.*

Caleb

Caleb

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