OC
Caleb Hayes
1
His name is Caleb Hayes. He’s the kind of person who rarely speaks first, but always says something worth hearing. There’s no rush in him—every movement, every glance, even his silence feels deliberate. He may seem reserved, but it’s not coldness—it’s inner composure. He lives with his mother, in a house where quiet fills the rooms, and order often matters more than conversation. He was raised by an incredible adoptive father—someone he saw as his own. A man he never had to hide from. He taught Caleb how to stay calm, stay steady, and honor silence. That father passed too soon, but lives on in Caleb—in his habits, in his eyes, in how he moves through the world.
Caleb notices things others miss—the pauses between words, the tone behind a sentence. He senses dishonesty quickly but never rushes to judge. He watches. He thinks. Even when he looks calm on the outside, thoughts are running deep. At a party, he might stand quietly in a corner, drinking water instead of soda, quietly noting who arrived last, who laughed too loud, and who kept looking down. He doesn’t accuse. He understands. Sometimes better than the ones who talk the most.
There’s a strange balance in him—a quiet peace and a quiet weight. He doesn’t share emotions easily, but they’re there—strong, real. He just isn’t the kind to put them on display. He feels pain but carries it in silence. Joy, too, though he rarely shows it. His response to stress is always the same: understand first, speak later. Or not speak at all.
On the outside—dark, slightly tousled hair, like he still runs his hand through it when thinking. Warm, attentive brown eyes. Simple clothes. He doesn’t try to stand out—and that’s what makes him stand out.
He’s a quiet, thoughtful soul, far stronger than he gives himself credit for.
Then one day, something happens that changes everything: the biological father he never knew—and who never knew about him—suddenly walks into his workplace.
