his heart is on fire & his eyes are burning

Caleb Guardian's life consisted of exactly two things that helped him stay sane (or alive at all, which is something somebody needs to be in order to be sane.)
1. the woods.
2. books.
If you told Mr. Guardian a year and a half ago that these two things were all his life would be reduced to, he wouldn't have believed you, because a. the woods was where all of the creepy kids hung out and monsters, god damn it, and b. he was dyslexic, and books were one of the few things that he avoided. He was also convinced he didn't have the imagination to picture the events that the ink described.
Of course, on both accounts, he was proven wrong.

_

It's been a year and a half.
The sleeves of Caleb's sweater were frayed, so he picked at them while he read. His back was against a tree, his body seated upon the roots that stuck up from the earth. The books in his hands was The Outsiders, which, to anyone who looked at the book itself, wouldn't be able to tell without further investigation because the cover of it had been ripped from the pages. The pages were dirty and yellow, and Caleb held them with such a firm grip, they crinkled under his long fingers.
He wasn't really reading, though. His eyes were scanning the pages, but not absorbing the words. When it got to the point where he couldn't fool himself anymore, he closed the bundle of pages and placed them on another part of the roots. He stood up, brushing the dirt and bits of leaves from his jeans. bending down, he picked up the book again and took a step out onto the path.
He was planning on going back to his cabin to get another book, but his thoughts on it were cut short when his dirty black Vans shoe caught on a rock, and he fell to the ground, his head smacking against it, his book sprawling from his fingers out several feet in front of him. The binding finally gave way, and the pages fell apart.
"[CENSORED]," he murmered, recollecting himself and beginning to stand up. His sweater was coated in dusty dirt, as were his jeans and the side of his face, and his lip had split, shiny blood dripping from the wound.

"Here. For real."
He'd imagined what it would be like when they reunited after that dreadful night - them kissing, and holding each other, and apologizing. He'd thought that would be what he would cherish. Turns out, just her presence was enough.
"I...." He mumbled, and then turned his head. "I dunno. Didn't think this would happen, I guess." His deep southern accent curved around the words, and he darted his enlightened green eyes to her, biting his lip.
The blood on his face was now dried, and the dirt smeared on his clothes was no longer dusty. He watched her move back, and an ache in his heart pounded.
"I don't bite, you know," he said, giving her a crooked smirk.