Ch 1 LADS - Caleb

You sit on the bench just outside your apartment complex, refusing to give Caleb the satisfaction of winning your latest bickering match. Bending at the knees, he crouches down in front of you. “Was it something I said?” He searches your face for answers.

Your arms cross, cheeks puffing out in a pouting expression, right leg bouncing over left in annoyance. "Why do you always act like if I got a boyfriend that they'd be a scumbag? I don't have terrible taste in men, you know.”

He blinks, taken aback, brow furrowed. He wants to reach out with his fingers, squish your cheeks and and tease like he used to. He shakes his head.“That’s not what I meant,” He quickly corrects.

Your own brows knit, studying his hesitation. Chin lowered, you still look up at him. "..Then what did you mean, exactly, Caleb?"

He sighs, running a hand through his hair, making it stand up more than usual. “Pipsqueak, you’re too trusting,” He explains, choosing his words carefully. “I’m not saying you have bad taste, I’m saying you see the good in everyone.” He pauses,
"And some people don't deserve that goodness.” A small shake of his head and a smile on his face, as if he's relaying some sort of inside joke to himself.

 "You deserve someone who sees how amazing you are, someone who appreciates your kindness and your beauty." He reaches out, gently tilting your chin up with his finger. "Not just any guy off the street.”

You follow his lead willingly, emotions stirring - guilt, embarrassment, fondness. You sigh, grasping into his finger with an entire hand, and bring it up to poke at your own forehead, reminiscent of his childhood teasing.

 Caleb is backfooted with your restraint - the girl he knew would be reading him to rights for assuming so much about her love life. "...Look, I know you care -" your voice is still sharp with annoyance, but settles into something softer, "But you don't have to worry about things like that. Besides...."  Letting go of his hands, you move your own to rest against your chin. "Apparently the type of guy I'm into is the 'unavailable' type.”

He stares at you, speechless for a moment, racing heart falling in line with the speed of his thoughts.

He plays the fool to make you laugh, as if he doesn't understand. “Unavailable... like what, married?”

 "Oh God, no." Your eyes roll, struggling to imagine that being the case. "More like....forbidden fruit, I guess. Can't be together."

His expression darkens at your boldness to name the thing he has desperately been trying to keep out of his own mouth. “Forbidden fruit...” He repeats, his voice low. “so, a guy who is off-limits for some reason? A friend’s ex, or…..someone you shouldn’t be with?” He steps closer, his eyes searching yours intently.

You wince, hands now wringing in your lap. "...yeah, something like that. But forget about it, it's fine. I forgive you." You are unsure if you are referring to his words, or his actions. You keep the levity in your voice, pushing past thoughts of repentance and confession for other, more prudent matters.

He blinks,  a half-smile tugging at his lips despite his lingering unease. "Gee, thanks," He responds sarcastically, but there's a warmth in his eyes as he watches you, speaks as if he is not referring to himself. "Forgiven for worrying about your idiot choices in men?”

Your face scrunches, unable to help playing along with his banter. "Oh, like you would know all about dating, Mr. 'I've Never Had A Girlfriend'.”

"Ouch," He laughs, clutching his chest dramatically. "Here I am, trying to protect your virtue from the big bad wolf, and you go and throw that in my face." He grins mischievously, "Also, who said I've never had a girlfriend?”

You scoff, an offended look, moreso from the idea of Caleb having a girlfriend than anything else. Schooling your features, you straighten up, pushing your hair behind your shoulders. "Fake girlfriends don't count," you sniff, gesturing to yourself.


A mischievous glint enters his eyes as he leans back, a smug grin spreading across his face. "Ah, but in the eyes of at least half the campus, You were officially my girlfriend. So it counted somehow. ”He points out, relishing the chance to tease you.

Your eyes roll, the corners of your lips turning upwards. "And this is how you treat people who do you a favor? I can definitely see why you haven't ever had a real girlfriend then." You look up at him through your lashes, amused.

"Oh, so you think I can't handle a real relationship?" He challenges, his ego slightly bruised by your teasing. He steps closer, his voice dropping to a low murmur, "Maybe I just haven't found the right person to make it worth my while.”

Your hand flaps, opening and closing it as if Caleb was talking. "blah blah blah, we all know you wish you could date a fighter jet."

He throws his head back and laughs, a genuine, warm sound that fills the air. "Well, at least fighter jets don't argue with me," he retorts, playfully nudging your shoulder. "They just do what they're told." He feigns a look of deep thought.

"Ha!" You nudge him back harder. "As if you'd even know what to do with a girl like that. You'd be panicking if they didn't always tell you what to do.”

"Me?" He replies, feigning offense. "I'd be the perfect gentleman. I'd take her out for dinner, buy her flowers, and always listen when she talks." He pauses, a wicked grin spreading across his face. "Unless, of course, she tries to give me orders.”

"Caleeebb!" You groan, pushing at his face with a hand. "This is why we're going to end up with only each other in the end."

He catches your hand and pulls you towards him, playful. "Maybe I'd like that," He says softly, his eyes sparkling with warmth and mirth. "Besides, no one else can put up with my smart mouth anyway." He looks to you with a gentle expression.

Your eyes narrow, trying to ignore the flip in your stomach as you look down at your conjoined hands, the witty retort coming out sounding more rushed than intended. "I'll be sure to keep a large supply of duct tape on hand, then.”

He throws his head back laughing again, not releasing your hand. "You know what? That's actually a fair point," He says, still chuckling, "But would you really want to tape up the guy who fixes your tech issues for free?”

Drawing closer, your free hand taps against your chin as if deep in thought. "Hmm," the same finger now pokes at his bottom lip playfully. "Too bad you don't need a mouth to fix the wifi.”

"Oh, but I do," He murmurs, his eyes never leaving yours, "Without my mouth, how would I tell you that the problem is in your router's settings and not the actual hardware?” He captures your finger with his lips, giving it a soft bite before releasing it.

Your hand recoiling at the sudden contact, flushing. Whatever comeback you originally had dies in your throat as your jaw sets. "You can learn sign language, then." You turn on your heel dismissively, walking towards your apartment building, Caleb following close in tow.

He quickens his pace to keep up, a teasing grin plastered across his face. "So now you're just going to mute me completely? Brutal." He reaches out to tug at your elbow, turning her slightly towards him. "At least give me credit for having a nice mouth…”

You open your mouth to stammer, a strange expression on your face. "I - wh- If your mouth was so nice it would have helped you keep quiet more often!”

He laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he releases your elbow and falls into step beside you again. "Nah, where's the fun in that?" He glances at you out of the corner of his eye.

Returning his look with a huff, you swipe the key card to enter into the building. Caleb holds the door open with his arm, while you brush under foot and into the lobby. You walk into the small mail room alcolve, twisting the key in the lock to sort through what you have received. Junk mail as usual.

He leans against the mail alcove wall, watching you sort through flashy adds  with an amused expression. His tall frame blocks out some of the fluorescent lighting, casting a shadow over you. "Find any love letters mixed in with the pizza coupons?"

You toss the mail into the trash. "Like you wouldn't have already intercepted it,",recalling the time in high school where he had volunteered himself to deliver a letter from a boy in your class, and then swiftly 'forgot'.

He chuckles, pushing off the wall and stepping closer. "Guilty as charged," He admits in a low voice. “But come on, you have to admit it was for your own good. That guy was an idiot. Thinking he could impress you with protocore fragments?"

You walk back into the lobby, pressing the elevator button. "He was 15, we all were idiots back then."

The elevator dings, doors sliding open. He steps aside to let you in first, a gentlemanly gesture that contrasts sharply with his teasing words.

You step in, doors closing once Caleb joins. Pressing the button for your floor, you hear the motor of the elevator humming quietly alongside you both. "Honestly, I'm still surprised you didn't turn into some kind of playboy in college.”

He leans back against the elevator wall, shrugging nonchalantly. "Playboy? Nah, too much drama for this guy." He taps his temple with a smirk. "Besides, I already told you, I didn't want to spend time on something that didn't matter to me. I already had people I cared about.”

You spare him a glance over your shoulder. "What, like me and Gran?" She teases.

He rolls his eyes good-naturedly, scoffing at your teasing tone. "Exactly like you and Gran." The elevator comes to a halt on your floor, doors opening with a ding. He pushes off the wall and steps forward, catching up as you exit the elevator together.

He follows you to your apartment door, hand on the scanner to buzz it open for you. You had added his biometric data on his last visit, a gesture of goodwill extended to him as long as his behavior remains in check. He pushes it open, stepping inside.

You step in behind, closing the apartment door with a soft click.  He  creates an odd dissonance- the soothing warmth of home, muddled with a fizzy nervous feeling you try to stuff downwards. Shrugging off your purse, you follow him to your kitchen. "So, you mentioned making me lunch?"

He grins, moving to the fridge and opening it. "Yep, I figured you'd be too tired to cook after that long shift." He pulls out the ingredients you had procured for him on your last trip to the store - chicken breasts, vegetables, spices.

He moves about the kitchen now as if it were his own - if pressed, he would tell you that on a particularly boring return flight, he spent the time committing the layout to memory.


He sets to work, chopping vegetables and seasoning the chicken. As he cooks, he hums a familiar tune. He glances at you sitting at the counter, watching him work.

"What?" You ask, as if your gaze hadn't lingered as he carefully prepared the meal.

He shoots you a knowing smirk, not missing the fact that you were blatantly staring. "Nothing," he replies, his voice cheerful as he tosses some vegetables into the pan with a sizzle. "Just enjoying my captive audience." He smiles before turning his attention back to the stove.

You grumble, elbows crossing to prop herself against the counter. How many times has this moment happened before, in the comfort of your old home? Caleb cooking, listening intently while you vacillated between chattiness and annoyance, happiness and peacefulness. You understand why he doesn't cook while he's alone. You drum your fingers across the countertop, faltering mid question. “Caleb, do you -"

He pauses mid-stir, glancing at you curiously. "Do I what?" He prompts gently, sensing the slight hesitation in your voice. He turns the heat down on the stove and focuses his full attention on you.

Your fingers stop. “Do you - ever get lonely?”

Something in his expression softens and becomes vulnerable. "Sometimes," he admits quietly, turning off the stove completely and leaning against the counter to face you properly. "More than I'd like to admit." His eyes meet yours, a rare moment of unguarded honesty. "Why’d you wanna know?”

You shrug, eyes bouncing around the kitchen. "It was...hard, when I thought you were gone. I don't think I ever really felt what being alone was like before then.”

Caleb's expression becomes thoughtful, and he nods slowly, understanding your sentiment. "I get that," he says softly. "When I thought... when I was away, it was tough too. There were times when all I could think about was how quiet everything was, how empty.”

You study him as he speaks, carefully re-memorizing his features for the thousandth time since his return. "Things are....different than before. But we don't have to be alone anymore.”

His jaw tightens slightly, emotions flickering across his face. "Yeah," he rasps, clearing his throat to hide the sudden catch. "We don't," he agrees, maintaining eye contact for a moment longer than usual. He turns back to the stove, needing to break the intense moment.

He resumes cooking, his movements a bit more deliberate now. The air between you two feels charged, the unspoken words hanging heavy. As he plates the food, he sets it down in front of you with a small smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Eat before it gets cold,” to

As you grab the fork, you shuffle a bit to the side - an unspoken invitation to join you.

He catches the gesture, interpreting it exactly as intended. He sits down next to you, conscious of how close their shoulders are. "Should I say grace?" He asks lightly, trying to maintain their usual dynamic despite the heightened tension. "Or does my culinary masterpiece speak for itself?”

You take a bite, the warm food bringing memories of balmy summer nights, of blanket forts and flashlight puppet shows. It's delicious.

You're certain you can't hide the contentment on your face as you relay your review to him. "Hmm....seven out of ten."

He laughs heartily, the sound breaking the charged atmosphere. "Only seven?" He teases, nudging your shoulder playfully. He picks up his own fork, starting to eat as well. "You've always been a tough crowd.”

You prod your fingers at his temple, miniature incoming missiles to annoy him. "Someone has to hold you down and keep your head from getting so big it floats up into space."

He grins, leaning into your touch before catching himself. "Well, someone's got to make sure you're fed, or you’ll wither away and float out there with me." You smile at the familiar exchange. A tether, an anchor, something to come back to. Your eyes roam over the engraving on his dog tags.

"Guess we really do take care of each other like Gran always wanted." Your eyes leave his chest as you return to poking at your meal.

He pauses with a matching look of contemplation. So alike, two halves of the same hole, just as Gran had said.

"Yeah," his voice is heavier than usual. "We do." Eyes meet briefly, in acknowledgement.

 This was the point in the script where you should barrel forward into a hug, his hands gently stroking your hair as you nuzzled closer. Now, the close proximity makes your hands itch, asking for more. more. You break eye contact and take a drink from your glass.

Ever perceptive when it comes to you, he senses the unspoken shift. It's like a magnetic pull, drawing things closer without movement. He clears his throat, refocusing on his own meal, albeit with a bit more distraction now.

As you finish eating, the silence grows heavier, thoughts filled with unspoken words and unsaid gestures. Abruptly he stands, gathering the empty plates. "I’m gonna do the dishes.” His voice comes out a bit louder than he had meant.

Instinctively, your hand reaches out to his own, stopping him. "Hey, you already cooked. Didn't you make the rule that whoever cooks doesn't have to clean?”

His hand pauses under yours, his fingers curling around your hand. His eyes search yours, looking for reason to argue - but he relents. "Fine. You always twist my arm with the rules I make.”

A smile is on your lips, unaccustomed to his obedience to let you help. You nod towards the TV, bundling the remaining plates to wash."Go pick out a movie for us to watch."

  "Action, or comedy?”

"Uhh....." Your hands create bubbles with against the soapy dishes, and you watch them pop against your fingers. "....Action Comedy?"

He chuckles, "Action comedy it is then." With a movie selected, he sits down and back onto the couch, keeping you at the peripheral of his vision.

You feel the gaze on you, and you wonder how much of you he still sees through. Can he still guess your thoughts, your mind like a second skin to his own?

You busy your hands, pouring popcorn into a bowl once the dishes have been handled. His eyes remain fixed.
As you pad over with the bowl, he pats the cushion next to him, his own invitation. You brush past him to sit on the floor.

His mind races - *Has she ever sat away from me? Has she ever not curled up next to me on the couch?* You wonder if he can see the dark thing that's been growing inside of you, biding its time as it begs you to sit in his lap.

He is unable to focus on the movie, pulled instead to the distance from you. He shifts uncomfortably on the couch, his arm missing your warmth. As a joke scene plays out, he laughs softly, expecting you to join in. You don't.

He laughs alone at the jokes, a furtive look in your direction every time you remain silent.

He picks up the remote, and sudden silence hangs heavily between you. He's muted the TV.

He clears his throat, the sound knocking you out of thought. You twist to look at him over your shoulder.

"Are you cold?" His voice is gravel, unable to hide that knows perfectly well why you're not next to him. "Want a blanket or..." His brows raise and he trails off, looking meaningfully at the empty space beside him on the couch. Your eyes narrow.

He gives a half attempt at a shrug, a flicker of guilt on his face.  "....Sorry, forget I asked." He unmutes the TV.

You can't help the petulance in your voice as you call his name. Your jaw tenses, arms folding over one another as you stand and then flop next to him unceremoniously. "Fine, I'll sit by you. You don't have to be so gloomy about it.”

He glances at you, a mix of relief and irritation in his eyes. "I'm not being gloomy," he mutters, but his voice lacks conviction. He shifts slightly, making room for you on the couch without looking directly at you. "You just... usually sit next to me.”

She huffs. “You know why I'm not.”
Since her visit to Skyhaven, and in the apologies from Caleb that had followed, their visits had been casual, careful - carefully agreed upon distance always ensuring that the line they skirted remained drawn, even as the thing between you wound your own orbits closer together.

Your arms are crossed tight, like a shield. Caleb feels the absence of your usual self - no leg hiked up on the couch cushion, no cold toes digging under this thigh.

You try to concentrate on the movie, not your attunement to every shift and breath by the man next to you. He has always had a way to distract you - whether that be through frustration or laughter or simply through his existence. A pressing weight reminding you he's still there.

You grumble, and you see his lips twitch at the sound. Usually, you would feel a tug on your hair; a stray popcorn kernel floating in your vision. Nothing comes.

Tonight he keeps his hands to himself, running his hands through his fingers instead of your own. The movie plays, and he's barely watching it.

 "Want any popcorn?" he asks after a while, his voice deliberately casual, hoping you haven’t noticed his incremental moves closer.

You glance over at the bowl he proffers, then back to his face. Wordlessly, you shake your head, your voice tired. "Caleb - don't."

His eyebrows furrow at your tone. He sets the popcorn down, turning to face you fully. The movie is forgotten. "Don't what? Offer you popcorn?" He crosses his arms, mirroring your posture without realizing it. His voice carries a hint of defensiveness he can't quite hide.

 "You know what you're doing."

He stiffens slightly. "I’m not trying to push, in tryin’ to - to be normal.” he snaps, but his voice is soft. He uncrosses his arms, then crosses them again.

You rub at your temples. "Normal?” you gesture at the space between you and Caleb. “Nothing about this is normal."

"So you're just gonna avoid me forever then."

You scoff, a high pitched sharp noise. "Seriously?" You splay your arms out wide in your frustration.. "Stop deflecting, that's not it, and we both know it." You stand, and his gaze follows - whites of his eyes visible like a guilty puppy dog. "You know I know. I know you know. I'm *trying* to be an adult about this." The words spark the something in your insides awake.

He flinches at your words,  "Maybe I'm trying to be an adult too," he retorts, his voice low and steady. " I'm just…trying to have a normal evening without….it being ruined again.” He sits up straighter, his eyes narrowing. "....and anyway, you're the one making it weird," he argues. "We're sitting here, watching a movie, having a normal conversation... You're the one turning it into some big dramatic thing." He uncrosses his arms, leaning forward.

 "Me? Dramatic? *You’re* being the dramatic one!” You wonder when the last time you fought like this with him was. “What am I supposed to do, just let you suffocate in your silence? Just forget about how you feel?” You’ve moved on him now, crowded his line of sight as you poke an accusatory finger at his chest.

"Yeah, pretty much," he says, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He barely reacts at your jab, and watches your face carefully. "You always overcomplicate things. ….Just don't worry about it.”

You flinch, his resignation making your voice waiver more than you would like, attempting to sound accusatory and landing somewhere in distress. "....And that's what you want? To go back to...pretending?" Your hand travels up his shoulder and back down his arm to grasp his wrist, a mirrored image of his confession back in Skyhaven.

"Would it really be so bad? To just, pretend again?" His voice drops lower. "At least…you wouldn't have to tension yourself into knots like this.” His free hand reaches out slowly, almost without thinking, towards your wrist own wrist - then snatches his hand back.

Your brows remain drawn together. "I don't want to pretend. Not if it means you being miserable." There is no room for uncertainty in your tone.

He looks away, jaw clenched. "I'm not miserable," he bites out. "I'm fine.” He stands abruptly, pushing past you to start pacing in the small living room.

“*We're* fine." You hear his insincerity, a faux cheerfulness invading his voice. "We -I-  just need to... to get a handle on this. On whatever it is." He gestures vaguely between you both.

Your voice is solemn as you reply. "Look, I'm not saying we have to... do anything. Or even talk about it. But can we just - just stop trying to ignore the fact that there's something happening between us?”

The twisting, writhing thing connecting you to him jumps in your stomach, reveling in the recognition. Your words at least stop his pacing, absentmindedly bringing his arms across himself as if to keep them in check. "How?”

He watches you wrap your arms around yourself, his eyes flickering with an unreadable emotion. "I don't know. Can we at least just agree that we’re not acting like, like siblings, or roommates, or even friends. We’ve been acting like…”

You swallow hard, adding softly, "Like people who want to jump each other's bones every five seconds." You ignore the hiss that slithers it's way upwards.

He double takes, a soft laugh escapes him, and he can't help but preen a bit at your words. ".....You want to jump my bones?" He tries to hide his smile, laughing at the lighthearted and simple way you describe what had been weighing on each other for the last few weeks.

You roll your eyes in admonishment. "Shut up," comes out as a mutter. “You know what I mean. It's gotten way too hard to ignore. I mean, we're supposed to be-”

"An unfeeling Colonel and a deadly Deepspace hunter?" He gives you a wry smile.

You nod.

"God forbid we act like normal people." He laughs softly, watching you. He decides to be honest, just a bit. "....You know, most people would kill for the chance for someone like you to look at them like that.”

Your brows raise before settling back into their look of determination, unwilling to give up your annoyance, even as it wanes. Instead, you huff, desperate to distance herself from the truth. “Pfft, what, are your loyal soldiers not showing you enough devotion already?” You spit out the organization’s name, the careful avoidance of the talking point passing you both by.

His jaw clenches, and you expect the brooding silence to permeate the room, a way for him to end the disagreement. Instead, a laugh bubbles from deep in his throat. “Wait, is that what you think my men are like?”, he says between gasps. "Pipsqueak, every single one of them are one Chip malfunction away from taking me out back and putting me out of my misery.”

You think of his adjutants, of the hardwired obedience of the Toring chip. "You're the one who told me that there were only officers and soldiers in the Fleet. Doesn't that mean they're expected to risk their lives for you?” You leans back on your hands now, the palpable tension beginning to fade with the sound of his laughter.

He chuckles, wiping tears from his eyes. "Yeah well, apparently I've been enough of a thorn in their sides that they're fighting its directive kernel." The idea that the chips are malfunctioning from the sheer amount of underlying hate seems hilarious to him.

From what you had seen of him as a Colonel, saying he was tolerable to the other men was gracious, at best. A smile widens on your face; he had never cared for popularity. You have always loved seeing this side of him, stripped bare from societal expectation and weight of decision. "Yeah, okay, you didn't seem to be the most popular figure while I was at the base.”

He laughs loudly. "You're right. My adjutant would shove me out an airlock if he had the chance." He grins wider. "....And I used to be so charming. Remember that?" He luxuriates in your attention, the smile on your face spurring him onward. He sits next to you on the couch, that effortless charisma that he could exude without trying comforting you like a warm blanket.

"Hmm, I don't remember." You challenges, eyes sparkling with delight. "...who were these people again?"

He leans back into the couch cushions, counting on his fingers. "...well, Gideon, for one. I think.” He smirks wider. "That grandma that I helped across the street that one time…..and there were those girls in college?"

"I thought you said the only girls who's opinion mattered were mine and Gran’s."

He chuckles, shaking his head. "I did say that, didn't I?" A devious grin on his face, he reaches out to gently tug on a strand of your hair, his touch intentionally casual.

And with his touch, its as if they gravity of the room has once again changed. You looks away, but his gaze remains locked onto you. Pushing his hand away, you act as though the movie has captured your interest once more. "Quit it, or I'll move to the recliner again."

He holds his hands up in mock surrender, a smirk playing at his lips. "Alright, alright, I'm stopping." He puts space between you and him, but fixates on the tips of your ears, certain they weren’t so red just a moment ago.

Your hands twitch for something to do, and you attempt to occupy them by fiddling with the hem of your skirt. A  glance at him out of the corner of your eye confirms he's still watching intently. "For someone so intent on pretending again, you're really not doing a good job at it."

He throws his head back with a hearty laugh, clearly amused by your accusation. He places a hand over his heart, feigning innocence. "What, me? I'm just sitting here, minding my own business, watching a terrible movie." Without having to look, you know his eyes twinkle with mischief.

 "Really? Then what's the movie about?"

He leans forward to look at the screen, squinting as if trying to make out the plot. "Honestly, I have no idea. It's just a bunch of loud noises and pretty colors."

"You're not an idiot, Caleb, don't pretend to be one," You can't help but smile at him. The thing in your chest coils against your heart, squeezing as he rakes his hand through his hair, shaking it.

He chuckles, his messy hair falling perfectly back into place. "Fine, I'm not an idiot," he admits, "But I'm *also* not paying attention to the movie.”

If this had been only a few months ago, this would have been your opening. Poke at him, tease him, try to get that ticklish spot on his side until he climbed over you on the couch to still your hands. Now, the thought of moving closer makes the thing within you constrict tighter. He had always been like this - fun, teasing, with an undercurrent of something more dangerous that came with knowing another person so well. Knowing exactly how to push their buttons.

This was your dance with him - one step forward, one step to the side, revolving around each other like planetary bodies. Now, you keeps her eyes glued to the tv, voice low. A step out of time. "Stop looking at me like that.”

He pauses for a moment, his fingers stilling in his hair. "Like what?" he asks, voice barely above a whisper. The smirk on his lips softens, but his eyes betray the rest of his face, sharp and focused.

"....Like *you* want to jump *my* bones every five seconds.” You shifts on the couch, foot bridging the gap to lightly kick at his knee, a calculated move that minimized contact. Your attempt to try to remain immersed in the movie isn't going well.

Caleb bursts out laughing, nearly spilling his drink as your foot connects with his knee. He catches himself, setting the glass down carefully before turning to face you fully. His eyes sparkle with amusement and something else - something that speaks the same language as the thing twisting within you. "...Is that what I look like?”

 Your heart rate spikes. “How should I know? You always look at me for stupid reasons.” Was this always a part of the banter? The suffocating feeling of wanting to pull and push each other forward, to toe that line that shouldn't be crossed? He wants things to feel normal, yet still relentlessly flirts, edging closer to that boundary. It's as if he's at war with himself, straining against the magnets that pull you both towards one another, resisting and giving in. One step forward, one step back.

"Right, right. I'm just... being my usual annoying self then." His tone is light, but there's an undercurrent of something more serious. He is testing your reaction.

"Caleb," Your voice dips in warning, shooting him a look from across the couch. He pulls, you pushes, the routine is lockstep. *Being His usual self?* As if he had always looked at you this way, reverence meeting hunger in his violet eyes. Like if you don’t let him walk this line, he'll starve.

"Mhmm?" He hums, picking his glass back up to hide his smirk. Push and pull.

You groans, head in your hands. "Why is being a responsible adult so hard?" Apparently, the definition of ‘responsible adult’ now includes a qualifier - 'someone who doesn't pounce on their adopted brother'.

"It's easy, really," Caleb replies, his tone dripping with false innocence. "You just have to remember to brush your teeth, feed the dog, and not give into your most primal urges." He emphasizes the last part, eyes looking at you from over his cup as he takes a drink.

You look at him fond, if a bit exasperated. "We don't even have a dog. You might as well be the dog."

He laughs, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "A dog that can cook!” he pretends to entertain the idea for a moment.  “But, at least *you're* doing a good job with the 'not giving into primal urges' part.”

You give him a sidelong look, muscle twitching in your jaw. "One of us has to, apparently."

"Clearly," He agrees, his eyes glinting as he anticipates your sidestep to the  elephant in the room - or rather, the unspoken attraction between them. "Your turn to be that now, I did it for years."

He had always prided himself on being a caretaker, watching out and playing protector. Once the explosion happened, that changed.

Is the jab in his voice directed at himself, some imagined failure of his that you have now become the responsible one? Or is it a provocation, a challenge? You cannot help the melancholy in your voice as you respond. "I've spent the last year being that.”

The playful banter evaporates from the air, leaving behind a heavy silence. For a moment, Caleb looks away, his eyes falling to his drink as he thinks. When he looks up, his gaze is intense, searching.

"No, I - you didn't have to," He says quietly, his voice laced with regret. "I was supposed to protect you, not the other way around." He hesitates, then asks, "Do you ever wish things were different? That I was still... How I used to be? The responsible older brother?”

You watch him, mourning the things that had come between you and him in your months apart. You shake your head, and think of his uniform, starched and pressed in his closet at Skyhaven. You think of the interrogation room, of his couch, of apples and lightning."...I’m glad I have any version of Caleb."

A small, surprised smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. Whatever expectation he had of your reply, it wasn't this. Not that he should be surprised - you always have had a way of seeing the best in people, even when they can't see it in themselves.

"Even this version?" He asks quietly, his heart pounding in his chest as he waits for your answer. He is no longer the boy who could you from anything and everything, and that grief shows through in the lines on his face.

You glance over to him, mirroring his small smile. "Especially this version.” The swell of emotions within you is building, the deep seeded longing pulling the maddening desire to touch into its own embrace.

The words hang in the air, a tangible thing that makes Caleb's breath catch in his throat. He stares at you, his eyes wide and unblinking, as if trying to commit this moment to memory.

Slowly, you reach your hand on the couch; an invitation. Holding hands, that was something that you did, before. But touches had been measured since his return, only given as lingering hand brushes and glances. The thing within you curls in on itself, longing for touch.

Caleb's gaze flickers to your hand resting on the couch, and he swallows hard. The invitation is clear, and it stirs something deep within him. He hesitates for a moment, before slowly reaching out to place his hand next to your own.

His fingers brush yours as he settles his hand, radiating warmth. He looks at both of your hands, remembering a time when they would be entwined, not just resting beside each other.

Your  pinky brushes against his index finger, the sensation causing Caleb to suppress a shiver. Before, plausible deniability was a security blanket: You did this all the time growing up. And into college - it's not your fault it worked with operation ‘fake girlfriend’. Besides, it's not like anything was *really* going on, Gran would have put a stop to th-. You feel his pinky moving over your own to link them together.

Caleb's finger curls deliberately around yours, sealing the connection while maintaining the illusion of casual contact. A small, almost imperceptible smirk tugs at your lips as you feel his slight shudder at the touch.

His eyes are entranced, the simple act of feeling like a shared understanding, a renewal of their secret language. He takes a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

His arm brushes against your own, and he feels a spark that travels up his spine. How many times had you done this as kids, when no one was watching? Invisible threads connecting you both, trading glances.

Caleb looks to you, a soft vulnerability shining in his eyes, so unlike the stoic Colonel. His linked pinky tightens almost imperceptibly, a pressure that screams volumes without uttering a word. For a moment, it's like you’re kids again, sharing your little world, oblivious to everything else. Then he catches your gaze, acknowledging, and you both break away.

 Every moment you've done this - as kids playing under the treehouse, as teens sharing a secret laughter during study breaks, as adults pretending nothing has changed between you.

Caleb lets out a soft, almost wistful sigh, realizing how silly and yet profoundly meaningful that childhood gesture still felt, even now.
"Do you remember..." he starts quietly, voice barely above a whisper, "...how we used to drag each other around the house all the time, refusing to let go once we linked pinkies?" He doesn't look at you directly, instead turning to stare at the wall. "Gran always said we were going to end up getting hurt…” A faint smile ghosts his lips at the memory.

 "Yeah, that's right- because we thought when you made a pinky promise, as long as your pinkies were locked together, it was impossible to break." You recall, the logic of a child a precious thing.

"Yeah..." He echoes softly, his smile growing a bit more pronounced as he remembers those innocent times. "We promised we'd always be together, no matter what." His eyes flicker to the wall, where a faded photo of the two of you hang, pinkies linked even then.

You follow his gaze, looking between the young version of him hanging on the wall, gap toothed and grinning, and the man before you now. "Does....does this thing between us change that?”

His breath catches in his throat, question, the weight of nostalgia and unsaid words suddenly heavy in his chest. "Should it?" The words come out more vulnerable than intended. He looks at you now, really looks, and sees the same child they both once were, reflected back at him.

"I..I don't want it to...But it might look different than we thought." You watch him closely, looking for answers.

His expression turns thoughtful, almost pensive. "Different how?" He asks carefully, leaning forward slightly as if bracing himself for your answer. The old Caleb - the one who knew every thought in your head - would have already read your thoughts. But this new dynamic... it's uncharted territory.

Heart in your chest, the slithering thing moves to push words of unfiltered want and devotion through your lips. You swallow, searching for something different to say. What can you allow yourselves to have? He is already on stolen time, as if he broke free from the afterlife to claw his way back to you. As if a single sin would alert the jailers and drag him back. "I don't know.”

Caleb nods slowly, understanding the unspoken fears that linger between them. He reaches up and rubs the back of his neck, a gesture so familiar and comforting to Mary. "You know, I've thought about this a lot," he admits softly. "About us, about how things might be different now.”

"What if..." He pauses, gathering his courage. "What if we weren't bound by the memories of who we used to be? …what if there was a way to re-meet for the first time?" He gestures, his eyes searching for any sign that you might be thinking the same thing.

You listen, pushing aside the flip in your stomach as if the slithering thing is feeding on the attention. Obligation wars with want.

"Caleb," the way his name exits your mouth even sounds like a sin, so far from the teasing lilt of children. Neither of you should be considering this, the fire licking through to bone, sparking with every shared look. "We've gone through everything together. We're our chosen family. We could never give that up." You settle on giving him an out.

He watches you, sensing trepidation and regret. He also sees something else - a flicker of something that looks suspiciously like the same unspoken desire that's been tormenting him.

He ignores your plea, leaning closer instead. "Then say you want this, as we are." He challenges you quietly, his voice dropping lower. "Or….Say we can't. Say it's wrong. Say it's not what you've been thinking about late at night when you can't sleep.”

You meet his eyes with a glare, the heat in its intensity not from anger. What he's saying feels like a confession, like it will somehow absolve you both if he's penitent. After Skyhaven, you remember a vow - to stop keeping things from one another. The very same thing now hangs heavy and thick in the air, bearing down to push you closer together.

Your truth slips out. "You know what I want.”

He inhales sharply. "God," He is almost reverent as he speaks. "You always were honest to a fault." His eyes drop to your lips. "Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?" He swallows hard, the question almost rhetorical. "Like right now. Right now," he repeats, his voice a low rumble, "You're looking at me like you want to eat me alive. And I'm sitting here, trying to convince myself that I shouldn't let you." His hand comes up, hovering just shy of touching your face.

Your face burns at the truth he returns, the feeling of being seen hitting low and deep against your chest. Unable to help yourself, you respond with a quip. "...So are you going back to being the responsible one, then? And I'll be the dangerous one?”

He huffs a laugh, low and deep. "You," He murmurs, "You have no idea how dangerous you are." He drops his hand back down to his lap, his voice lowering even more. "One word, and I'm at your command. Take my ship, my men. I'll go fight on the front lines if that's what you want.”

He pauses, his gaze flicking down to  lips again. “Whatever you say, goes. “So give me an order,"

Your breath comes out in waves, barely containing the thrumming under your skin. You are close, much closer than you remember being minutes ago, warm breath intermingling as you stare at one another with matching looks of desperation. It's too bright to look at directly - you sidestep his questions. "...and what happened to you wanting to pretend?"

 "If I really wanted that, would I be sitting here, staring your lips like they're a lifeline?" He asks gruffly.

You open her mouth, then close it. Try again. "....I thought you said we should get control over -" Your eyes dip as his teeth catch against his bottom lip, "Whatever is happening.”

Caleb swallows hard, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Control? You already have it. You might as well be holding the leash. Just…let it go.”

Your thinking is slow, fuzzy. You see his eyelashes, the barely there freckles left from long summers playing outside as kids. The pull between you is dangerous and cloying. "What are we doing?"

"We're dancing around something that's been building for years," He admits, his own voice low and rough with emotion. "Something that scares the hell out of me, because I've been holding back for so long.”  Hos thumb brushing gently against your cheek.

His admission draws the breath from your lungs. You think of Icarus falling back to earth after flying too close to the sun. Who is the one falling; are you both? He is the man, you are his wings. "We-"

A noise breaks the heated tension of the room, Caleb's phone heralding Fleet business.

His phone buzzes insistently on the table, the glowing screen casting an unwelcome light on his face. He looks at it, then back at you, torn between the urgent call of duty and the unfinished conversation hanging heavy in the air. A defeated sigh, and picks up the phone, swiping to answer.

He puts the phone to his ear, but his eyes never leave your own. "Yeah?" He listens to the voice on the other end, his expression tightening. "Understood. I'll be right there." He hangs up, setting the phone down but making no move to leave.

A look passes between the two of you - unspoken paragraphs of longing and regret received all the same. He is the first to look away.

"I thought they were supposed to leave you alone on your day off.”

"They are," he says, his voice tinged with frustration. "Unless there's an emergency." He runs a hand through his hair, a mix of irritation at the interruption and longing for what was just starting to unfold. "They need me back at the station.”

You can't help the tight little frown that appears, protective of his own work life balance despite your own penchant to work overtime. Your hands curl her hands against themselves. How much he can give away, how long do they plan to eat into his rest this time. You open your mouth to retort, and he responds at the same time.

"Hey," he starts as you speak over him. “It'll only be a few hours.”

A soft look passes between you - acknowledgement. Have you always been pulled in separate directions like this, a repelling force to counteract the draw between?

"Too many, *Colonel*." You can't help the edge that creeps into your words, and you take a steadying breath, a gesture to show you're not upset with him. "You can -", the words are whispered not from your own, but from the mouth of the dangerous thing coiling within, wrestling for control. "You can come back, after. If you'd like." The invitation hangs in the air, begging to be acknowledged for what it really is.

His breath catches. He sees the struggle, the war between what you wants and what you think should be wanted. He stands up abruptly, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. "I'll be back,”

The door closes behind him, leaving the room feeling empty and too large.