Gravity Between Us

I hate the Vega District. The whole place sweats desperation and bad decisions. Every alleyway is greased with ambition—money, status, flesh—take your pick. 

I’ve been embedded for six days now. Six days of smiling through gritted teeth and pretending to be fascinated by smuggling routes, mercenary war stories, and black-market bid wars narrated by men with too many rings and not enough brain cells. The whole scene is a parade of swaggering opportunists and discount aristocrats who treat broken moral compasses like the season’s must-have accessory.

Tonight’s the payoff. The auction. It’s invitation-only, and getting my name on the list was like crawling naked through barbed wire. 

Caleb’s been silent except for the daily check-ins. Coded. Concise. Emotionless. Each message a tidy little package of just-enough-to-keep-me-alive, signed with the emotional warmth of a Fleet-issued wrench. 

No “how are you holding up,” no “don’t get yourself killed,” not even a half-hearted innuendo to spice things up.

I miss his voice in my ear. The way his sarcasm always curls at the edges when it’s just for me, like it can’t quite keep pretending not to care. The subtle pause before he says my name, like he’s tasting it.

Instead, I get:

//Status?

//Secure.

//Proceed.

It’s the sexy stuff of romance novels.

My hair’s pinned up, my face flawless, and my weapon is discreetly holstered at my hip beneath the long coat I’ve slung fashionably over one shoulder. Everyone at this place is armed, anyway. It’s just good manners.

The auction is held in a converted skyport lounge. I clock every face when I walk in. Three of them I recognize. Five more are probably dangerous. One looks like they might cry if you raise your voice.

The auction hasn’t started yet, so everyone’s circling like predators eyeing other predators, pretending they’re all here to sip expensive liquor and not buy death off the black market.

“Darlin’,” drawls a familiar voice.

Neris. One of the few I’ve tolerated long enough to count as a “friendly.” She’s sharp in a venomous way with high cheekbones, low morals, and an accent that makes people underestimate her until they’ve already signed over their life expectancy.

“Looking lovely as ever,” she lilts, plucking a strawberry off someone’s unattended glass like she owns it. “Still running with that trade syndicate out of Ceris? What was it—Rift Shroud?”

“Rift Veil,” I correct smoothly. “Someone has to keep their procurement officer from sleeping with every client.”

She laughs, tossing the strawberry into her mouth. “Oh, that’s you, is it? How noble.”

“I’m a martyr,” I deadpan. “Real halo-wearing type.”

Neris smirks and drifts away with a wink tossed like a coin I’m meant to catch. She’s already bored, already hunting the next person worth orbiting. I watch her disappear into the haze of laughter and low lighting.

That’s how it works here. In this crowd, friendship is a currency with a brutal exchange rate—tender only so long as you’re useful, shiny, in play. Affection runs shallow, tethered to profit margins and power plays. You slip, you stall, you start costing more than you’re worth, and they vanish. 

Ghosts in glitter.

I move on. Shake hands with a weapons broker who smells like melted plastic and smiles like he’s thinking about cutting me open for spare parts. 

Next is a woman named Kiva, who once tried to sell me an EMP device disguised as a hair clip. She eyes me warily now, clearly still nursing a bruised ego from the time I reverse-hacked her comms and played embarrassing voice memos over the bar’s speakers.

“Kiva,” I greet, sugar-laced venom curling on my tongue, “still managing to weaponize incompetence?”

She scowls. “Still alive somehow. Shame, really.”

“Don’t worry. Life’s short. Yours especially,” I murmur like I’m already imagining the obituary.

She barks a laugh and taps her glass to mine in grudging respect before slipping away. I’ve burned through my last drop of charm, and I can feel it—my smile’s too tight, my temples throb, and my internal monologue is starting to sound like a pissed-off stand-up routine no one asked for.

Every conversation now feels like a hostage negotiation with my facial muscles. My eyebrows have been stuck in a position of feigned interest for so long they’ve started twitching in Morse code for send help.

At this point, even my blinking feels passive-aggressive.

My social battery isn’t just dead—it’s been buried in a shallow grave behind a dumpster in the rain, and someone’s kicking the tombstone for fun. I want to go home. I want to not talk. I want to lie facedown in a soundproof room where the only conversation is between me and a very large blanket.

But no. I’m still here. Still smiling. Still mingling like some broken hologram of a human being. And the worst part? The more short I get, the more this crowd seems to respect me. Like politeness is weakness and mild verbal abuse is a love language. 

Fantastic.

I’m living proof that you can run on spite alone if the ambient levels of bullshit are high enough.

The next person I meet is a wall of a man with arms like industrial piping and no discernible neck. He watches me like I might bite, which, honestly, is fair.

“You’ve got blood on your cuff,” I point out dryly.

He lifts his wrist, examines the stain, and shrugs. “Not mine.”

“Charming.”

He doesn’t laugh, but he doesn’t punch me either, which in this crowd is practically a standing ovation. He grunts something about needing another drink and stalks off.

Two down, a hundred to go. I angle my body toward the back corner where the shadows are deeper and fewer people will try to flirt or stab me, though in this district, those are usually the same thing.

The auction chamber is tucked behind a sliding panel that hisses open. Everything about the room feels curated—low lighting, no windows, and chairs arranged in concentric arcs around a central platform. It’s dim enough that no one’s face is fully visible unless they want it to be.

I step in with the crowd, my shoulders set, my pulse steady. A server sweeps by with another tray of drinks, but I ignore it. I slide into an empty seat near the middle of the back row, keeping the exit in my periphery.

The host strides onto the platform as soft music fades into silence. A spotlight catches centre stage, casting everything else in rich, moody shadow. 

The first item is a bladed gauntlet rumoured to be keyed to DNA. It’s presented like a piece of art, hovering in a containment field, slowly rotating. Bids come in low at first, then climb. A soft murmur rises and falls as the gauntlet is sold to someone whose seat is entirely shrouded in black.

The next item is a pair of neuro-linked taser darts shaped like antique fountain pens. Someone near the front chuckles like it’s the cleverest thing they’ve ever seen. 

I pretend to watch, crossing one leg over the other, tilting my head with just enough interest to look like I belong. I’m scanning. Mapping. Noting who whispers to whom. Who drinks. Who doesn’t.

Shadows slip along the edges of the room, barely more than movement at first. One here, then two more there, sticking to the walls like grease. They’re moving with purpose, not interest.

Security? Late arrivals?

I don’t react outwardly. I swirl the dregs of my champagne and lean back as if bored, but my eyes flit, tracking. Counting.

Five. No—six now. That’s not casual. I’m just about to shift my hand toward my thigh holster when the lights dim a fraction more.

The next item glides onto the platform in a reinforced case: sleek, black, and humming with a faint yellow sheen. I don’t need the auctioneer’s theatrics to recognize it.

Fleet tech.

Not just any tech—a prototype antimatter railgun. The kind of weapon so high-yield it makes your average blaster look like a sparkler. The crowd ripples. Whoever’s here for it knows exactly what it is.

I angle slightly in my chair, prepared to send the silent alert through my bracelet, when a prickle starts at the back of my neck. At first, I think it’s a trick of the light, until I see the figure standing far in the back, mostly obscured by shadow. 

Watching me. 

Colonel Heath.

He stands in the shadows like a ghost given shape, and I know my cover’s blown. The lights pulse softly as the auctioneer starts the bidding on the Fleet weapon. 

I meet Heath’s eyes. Hold the stare.

And he smiles, the kind that says checkmate, even if you haven’t realized you’re playing.

I shift my expression into something unimpressed. If he’s going to hunt me, I’m going to make damn sure he knows I’m not prey.

My brain spins like a weaponized wheel, calculating routes and contingencies. Running would get me shot before I hit the first row. Staying means whatever trap Heath’s cooked up will spring shut around my throat.

So I fake a cough. Nothing theatrical—just enough to draw a bit of attention from the nearest usher-bot. It zips over, blinking politely in my direction, projecting a silent menu in the air: Need assistance?

I nod and touch my stomach like I’m nauseated. The bot tilts, scanning, then beams a bright Exit escort authorized into my vision.

Good little machine.

It hovers beside me, projecting a polite glow that draws just enough suspicion to make my exit look legitimate. I rise from my seat, keeping my head low, one hand brushing the edge of my coat where my concealed weapon rests.

The usher-bot glides ahead, parting a curtain that leads to the maintenance corridor. Not an official exit—probably where the auction staff sneak smoke breaks or fix broken bulbs.

As soon as the curtain swings shut behind me, I pivot. Fast. Cut right. I leave the bot floating dumbly and slip into a hallway lined with fuse boxes. The scent of old oil and heated wires clings to the walls. 

I duck behind a broken panel, pull out the jacked comm embedded in my earpiece, and whisper fast.

“Alpha-nine, confirmed. Target present. Hostile identified. Repeat: hostile confirmed. Heath is here. Cover blown. Attempting evac.”

There’s a static pause. Then the faint click of the signal taking hold. I spin on my heel and head toward a side exit. If I make it there, I’m clear. Gone before Heath can blink.

Five more steps. Four.

A ripple in the air behind me.

Cold metal kisses my spine.

“Fancy seeing you here, Hunter Inara,” Colonel Heath purrs behind me, a gloved hand coming to my shoulder. 

The chuckle that follows is wet and gloating, somewhere between a threat and a celebration. I twist, and my elbow catches Heath’s rib with a very satisfying crunch, but the muzzle at my spine doesn’t budge. He grunts, tightening his grip. I try to drop low, break his hold, and make for the corridor again.

A boot slams into my shin, throwing off my balance. I stumble, catch myself on the wall, and his fist drives into my side with a sickening thud. Pain flashes up my ribs.

“You little—” Heath snarls, but doesn’t finish the sentence.

Six more men file in from the shadows. Their weapons aren’t pointed at me. They don’t need to be. They know. I know.

There’s no way out.

“Get everything,” Heath snaps. “You know how the Fleet operates. Bugs in their teeth, cameras in their damn eyelashes. Hairpins too.”

Two of the goons grab my arms, wrenching them behind me. One yanks off my boots. Another starts stripping jewellery—bracelet, ear cuff, ring, even the tiny stud at my collarbone. One of the men digs in, jerking pins from my hair with none of the gentleness the knots require. 

Heath steps in front of me and gives a grin that’s all yellow teeth and warped ego. 

I stiffen. “Touch me and I’ll bite your fingers off.”

Heath chuckles darkly. “Not quite the deterrent you think it is.”

His gloved hands start at my shoulders. He makes a show of it, dragging down my arms, over my sides, lingering longer than necessary at my waist.

“Mm. What do we have here?” Heath croons, fingers brushing the edge of the pistol holstered beneath my hip.

His hand slips under my dress. I go completely still. Fingertips graze my thigh, creeping up—

“You’ll want to be careful,” I threaten, voice cold as ice. “The last guy who put his hand that high lost it to frostbite.”

Heath smirks, and he draws the gun free. His touch lingers just long enough to make his point.

“That mouth of yours,” he murmurs, voice low and sleazy. “Think I might find a better use for it before this is over.”

I flash a slow smile, all teeth and zero warmth. “Oh, by all means. Test the bite radius. Let’s see how many fingers you want to keep.”

He pockets the weapons and steps back, triumphant. “I think we’re going to have such a good time, Hunter.”

When this is over, Heath will wish he’d killed me tonight.

The car is one of those high-end, armoured transports with black leather seats, ambient lighting, and reinforced glass that probably laughs in the face of rocket launchers.

I’m shoved in first. My shoulder hits the leather seat with a graceless thud, and I barely have time to roll my eyes before the guards pile in. Two flank me like I’m about to sprout wings and make a break for it. Another sits opposite, legs spread in the universal language of “I eat protein powder with a spoon.”

Then Heath slides in last, grunting like the effort of sitting down is beneath him. He stretches out beside me like this is the start of a romantic getaway and not—oh, I don’t know—a felony.

I resist the urge to lean away. Mostly because I already did and there’s nowhere else to go. I glance at his hand resting too close to my thigh and mentally compose a postcard to Caleb:

Wish you were here. To cave this man’s skull in with your elbow. Love, your perpetually kidnapped girlfriend.

He grins like I’m a particularly good cut of meat. “Comfy?”

“Oh, thrilled,” I deadpan. “Five stars. Would absolutely recommend the kidnapping experience to friends and family.”

My heart’s doing this annoying staccato in my chest, fast and off-beat. I don’t look shaken, but internally I’m filing through every contingency plan I have left.

My comms are gone. Weapons? Gone. Boots? Gone. One of the guards took my hairpin and looked smug about it, which still offends me more than anything.

“You know,” he drawls, voice syrupy and smug, “I’ve always wondered what made you so special.”

Here we go.

I fold my hands neatly in my lap to stop myself from strangling anyone. “Maybe I’m just fun at parties.”

Heath chuckles, and it’s a sound that makes my teeth itch. “Oh, I doubt that. You strike me as the kind of girl who hides in the kitchen with the dog.”

I do, and I prefer it, actually.

The car slows. Stops. Doors open. Gravel crunches. One of my captors puts a blindfold on me. They tie it too tight, like they think I might try to shake it loose by rubbing against a passing wall.

“Out,” one of the guards grunts, yanking the door open.

A hand clamps around my arm and pulls me to my feet. We walk for a while. I count my steps. Note the shifts in sound. Gravel to metal grates to concrete. There’s a mechanical clunk—a gate or loading dock, maybe. It smells like oil and rust. Somewhere industrial.

Heath finally breaks the silence, his voice viscid with the satisfaction of someone who thinks they’ve found the perfect knife to twist. “Do you ever wonder what happened to your precious Caleb’s arm?”

The words hang there, casual as spilled gasoline waiting for the spark. I don’t flinch. Don’t tilt my head. Don’t even breathe differently.

My pulse slams upward, a hot, electric surge that tears through my chest like I’ve been defibrillated by sheer implication. For a second, I swear I can hear my heartbeat—thudding against the blindfold, against my ribs, against every composed inch of me that’s trying to keep still while my brain is suddenly tap-dancing through a hundred scenarios.

If he knows about that, then he knows more. About the wreckage, the rescue, the weeks Caleb won’t talk about—the way he goes quiet when his fingers twitch like ghosts of a hand he doesn’t have anymore.

The blindfold feels like it’s soaked in heat now, clinging to my skin like it wants to smother the truth before it lands. I focus on keeping my face a perfect, sculpted mask, while internally I am grabbing the steering wheel of a runaway mental hovercar and trying not to swerve off a cliff.

Heath hums, amused at his own question. “Fleet official story was warzone debris. Classic. Clean. No one asks too many questions when they hear ‘shrapnel.’”

“You should thank them,” Heath drawls, like we’re just two old friends on a pleasant stroll and not—say—kidnapper and hostage. “Without EVER’s little intervention, your dear Caleb would be six feet under.”

I let out a bored scoff, flipping my tone into dismissive condescension. “Are you playing tour guide and conspiracy theorist?”

He slows his pace, posture shifting like he’s trying to play the role of the wise villain in Act Three. “I used to think you were just tagging along behind Caleb. Classic orphan complex. Latch onto the first pretty face that doesn’t treat you like a statistic.”

“Touching,” I deadpan. “I’ll be sure to sob into my trauma journal later.”

“But now…” he muses, ignoring me like I’m decorative, “now I think maybe you’re not just blindly loyal. Maybe you know what he’s done. Maybe you’re exactly his kind of monster.”

I tilt my head, just enough to feign mild interest. “Wow. You should’ve led with that. I love it when men project.”

He chuckles again, smugger than before. “You know about the Toring chips, don’t you?”

The words land like a scalpel. Clean. Sharp. Precise.

Toring chips.

My brain goes surgical—filing, sorting, connecting. Everyone in the Fleet knows the name. No one talks about what they do. 

Heath keeps walking. “Nasty little things. Elegant, though. Clean. Controlled. They turn people into exactly what you want them to be.”

My skin goes tight. That’s all he says. No details. No mechanics. Just a statement that feels like a dagger being slowly twisted beneath my ribs.

“And Caleb?” There’s a short pause, but I can still hear his labouring breathing. “Well. Let’s just say there’s a reason he’s the Fleet’s golden boy.”

I hum noncommittally, forcing my face into something bored and disdainful. “That was quite the dramatic pause. Did you rehearse this in a mirror first?”

Inside, I’m ice.

The next sound I hear is the groaning metal of a heavy door sliding open. A cooler room. The scent of sterilized equipment and humming machinery. The blindfold comes off.

I blink against the sudden dim light.

Concrete walls. Strip lights. Steel chairs bolted to the floor. Cameras in the corners. A table with restraints, and Heath, smiling. 

“Home sweet home,” he purrs.

Chapter Masterlist

To nobody’s surprise, my next mission is in Skyhaven, with the Farspace Fleet. The moment the assignment pinged on my Hunters watch, I knew something was off. Hunters usually get to pick their missions, but this one came directly from Command with a shiny little red flag waving on it that screamed: You don’t get to say no.

Now, here I am, sitting in on a debriefing I wasn’t invited to, for a mission I know nothing about, surrounded by people who are all very clearly trying to figure out why I am here.

No one’s explained what I’m supposed to be doing, and I am way too afraid to ask because every time I so much as breathe, half the room whips around like I just stood up, pulled out a baby seal, and announced I’m about to club it for sport.

A predicament, to be sure. Historically, nothing good happens when people stare at me.

Best-case scenario, I make a weird joke nobody laughs at. Worst-case, I black out from social anxiety and wake up three minutes later mid-monologue about the socio-economic implications of alien hotdogs.

I try to pretend I’m casual about it—elbow on the table, chin in my hand, expression neutral—but my social battery is shrivelling like a sun-blasted raisin, and I’m 97% sure I’ve been fake-nodding for so long I’ve lost all control of my neck.

At this point, I am a deeply awkward sentient bobblehead.

Aurelia Voss is the worst offender. She’s glaring at me like I keyed her starcruiser and insulted her mother in the same breath. Her eyes keep ping-ponging between me and Caleb like she’s trying to solve the quantum equation of “Why her and not me?” and every answer keeps punching her directly in the self-esteem.

On the bright side, and I do mean, solar-flare levels of blinding bright, I have a front-row seat to Colonel Caleb in peak “I command fleets and bench-press enemy ships before breakfast” mode.

It’s not a bright side for my pants (tragically deceased), my dignity (missing in action), or this Fleet chair that was clearly made by sadists who think comfort is a myth.

He says things like, “Run a secondary diagnostic on Deck Two,” and my brain starts screaming, “Tie ME to Deck Two, sir.” Someone please stop this man before I commit a crime of passion against the nearest wall. Colonel Caleb is like a spaceborne wet dream in uniform, and I do not have the emotional maturity to be normal about it.

Aurelia is the first to crack. She whips her hair over her shoulder like she’s doing a shampoo commercial in zero gravity and fixes Caleb with a saccharine smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Colonel,” she intones, her voice like sugar left out in the sun too long, “why is she here?”

Ah. There it is. The venom. The barely veiled “I will burn your little Hunter to the ground and salt the ashes” tone.

Caleb doesn’t blink. “She’s been assigned to this mission.”

Aurelia’s brows go up. “But… she’s not Fleet.”

“She does not need to be,” he replies coolly. Then—oh god, then—he drops his voice into that deep, no-nonsense register that could bend steel beams and ruin lives. “And you do not have the clearance to question it, Lieutenant.”

Oh. Oh. I am going to pass out. My ovaries are doing synchronized swimming. My brain has checked out and left a sign that says ‘Closed for maintenance due to critical Caleb-induced flooding.’

The stupidest, smuggest smile crawls across my face like it’s escaping containment. I try to fight it, but I end up looking like a cat that just knocked a priceless heirloom off a shelf and watched it shatter in slow motion.

Aurelia turns back to me, a scowl pulling her brows low and her eyes narrowed. “Just so we’re clear,” she informs me in a tone that suggests she wants to fight me in the parking bay, “Fleet information is confidential. We don’t need some off-grid Hunter running her mouth to her little vigilante friends.”

I blink. Twice. Open my mouth. Close it. Do that thing where you smile even though your soul is briefly trying to escape your body through your eye sockets. I’m not sure if I should say, Excuse me? Are you okay? Or full-send a juice box at her face and call it a day.

Caleb cuts in like a vibroblade through tension. “That’s enough, Lieutenant.”

The whole table goes still.

Aurelia looks like she just swallowed a lemon, and I am physically restraining myself from crawling across the polished table, planting myself in Caleb’s lap, and asking him in front of everyone to say ‘that’s enough, Lieutenant’ again, but slower, and with maybe a little breath on my neck.

My thighs do a very quiet, very shameful clench. He could call me insubordinate, and I’d say thank you. He could court-martial me, and I’d offer to buy dinner first. Honestly, if he so much as breathed the word “punishment,” I would dissolve into a puddle of need on the floor, wailing, “Do it, you beautiful bastard.”

Aurelia, however, does not seem to appreciate the erotic power trip I am having in real time. Her glare has evolved into a death ray. I sink a little lower in my chair, chew on the inside of my cheek, and wonder just how many HR violations I’m mentally racking up per minute.

Get it together. I’m a trained Hunter. A lethal weapon. I’ve faced death, survived ambushes, and several mandatory sensitivity trainings. I am not about to sit here, ogle my boyfriend’s impossibly broad, sin-forged chest, and daydream about being railed into orbit on this conference table while the Fleet’s finest look on in horror.

…But if I did, scientifically speaking, this table is absolutely the right height. In fact, it would be a public disservice not to find out if it could survive a full-scale orbital strike, powered entirely by Caleb rearranging my spinal column.

Focus!

I lock my eyes on the mission display. The projection stabilizes into a map of a port city on the edge of the Vega District, known for three things: black market smugglers, overpriced neon cocktails, and being the galactic equivalent of a seedy nightclub held together by chewing gum and narcotics.

Caleb gestures to the map with the kind of calm authority that makes my stomach do inappropriate things. “Two nights ago, there was an explosion at one of our facilities. Classified assets were stolen before the self-destruct sequence was initiated. Whoever did it knew the protocols and how to avoid Fleet countermeasures.”

He taps a red blinking icon. “We believe the stolen cargo has made its way to the black market. It’s too dangerous to allow it to be sold. We need to retrieve it.”

I blink slowly, trying to process the words while my brain runs a separate, much louder internal monologue: Wow, look at you. Just spitting out danger reports like they’re dirty talk.

Caleb continues, blissfully unaware of the literal pornographic novella I’m mentally drafting about his tactical planning skills. “We’ve identified three potential drop points within the city. Your task—” he glances at me, and I forget how breathing works for a moment “—is infiltration.”

I make a little half gasp, half moan. “Infiltration,” I repeat quickly, nodding with entirely too much enthusiasm. “Yes. Good. Love that. Big fan of… infiltrating.”

“We need someone who can move through Skyhaven’s seedier levels without drawing attention,” he explains. “You’ve worked the underbelly before, Inara. You know how it operates. And frankly, the less people know this is a Fleet mission, the better.”

Oh great. A compliment. Just go ahead and carve my tombstone now. Here Lies Inara: Died Doing What She Loved. Getting Mentally Railgunned by a Mission Briefing.

He starts listing intel drop times, contact names, and details about surveillance patterns, but I’m only catching about 60% of it because the other 40% of my brain is just screaming YES, COLONEL on loop.

By the time the briefing winds down, I’m lightly sweating, definitely flushed, and sitting in a puddle of inappropriate workplace feelings. Caleb straightens like he’s about to wage war and not just hand me a list of names.

“Hunter Inara,” he barks, sharp and authoritarian, his tone snapping across the table like a shot. “With me. I’ll provide the intel personally: contacts, locations, infiltration points. You can ask any questions you have en route.”

I rise from my chair like a cursed woman—haunted, twitchy, absolutely vibrating with repressed lust—and follow behind him as he stalks out of the meeting room. Every hallway we pass is a minefield of dignity destruction. Officers stiffen to attention the second he enters their eyeline. 

“Colonel,” they bark, saluting with brutal formality.

Caleb doesn’t so much as blink. Eyes forward. Back straight. Shoulders squared. It’s like walking behind a monolith carved from command. I am white-knuckling my sanity and holding back an unholy wail of, “Take me behind this potted plant, Colonel!”

I try walking slower. I try breathing through my nose. I try not imagining how his gloves would feel wrapped around my throat while he orders me to report every detail of my infiltration with a hand between my—

“Keep up, Inara.”

I take a shuddering breath and obey, nearly speed-walking to stay close behind him. Apparently my inner kink is militarized efficiency. By the time we reach the double doors of his office, I’m one sharp command away from just throwing myself at him and letting the consequences sort themselves out later. The doors slide open, and I stumble in after him like a heat-seeking missile.

The room is cold and gorgeous in that high-ranking-military way: minimalist walls, holographic display hovering mid-air over his desk, glass shelves lined with tactical books and awards. He walks in like he owns the vacuum of space itself, heading for the console beside his desk. I, meanwhile, am trying not to claw at my own skin.

The windows—oh, God, the windows. They span the entire left wall, floor to ceiling, with a panoramic view of the landing pad below. There’s a fleet ship docking right now, lights flashing, people running.

Sweet mother of galaxies, I want him to fuck me against that glass. I want the fog of our breath and the sweat of our sins smeared across the view of a civilization he swore to protect. I want the imprint of my ass cheeks on his windows while two star cruisers touch down.

“Pip-squeak?”

I jolt, blinking. “What?”

He’s turned to face me now, one brow arched, the faintest pull of amusement at the corner of his mouth. “Your eyes were doin’ that thing.”

“What thing?”

“The I’m imagining you rearranging my insides in broad daylight thing.”

“Oh,” I nod, with the gravitas of a person who has never known shame. “Yeah. That tracks.”

He’s still somehow the Colonel and yet softening around the edges just enough to let the real him peek through. Maybe it’s the whiplash, or the fact that I can still hear his commanding voice in my spine, or maybe it’s just that my body has officially decided it can no longer withstand this level of discipline, but I snap.

I cross the space between us in two furious, horny strides, slam him against the wall with a satisfying thud, and kiss him.

He makes a low, startled noise in his throat, and then his hands are on me, fists gripping the back of my jacket. I kiss him like war. Like worship. Like I’m trying to get the air back into my lungs that he keeps stealing just by standing near me in a goddamn uniform.

“Inara—” he growls, breaking the kiss just enough to try and speak, but I’m already kissing down his jaw, scraping my teeth along the tendon in his neck, and he makes a sound that is going to haunt me in the best way.

“Windows,” he grits, fumbling behind him toward the wall console with one hand while the other grips my hip.

“What about them?” I mutter into his skin, already working at the fastenings of his uniform.

“They’re not tinted—shit—someone could see—”

“I hope they do,” I hiss, kissing down his collarbone as he finally smacks the control pad. 

The windows dim with a soft whir, going opaque like we’re in a VIP section of hell.

“This is a debriefing. Not a—fuck—”

“Yeah? Then debrief me, Colonel,” I breathe against his mouth, “because I’m absolutely not wearing any panties.”

He curses and kisses me like that’s the final straw, and he’s done pretending we’re anything less than two people trying to set each other on fire. “Do you have any idea,” he mutters against my throat, “what you do to me?”

“Yes,” I gasp, clawing at the fastenings on his belt like I’m trying to dismantle the Fleet itself. “And I want to do more of it.”

His mouth is on mine, biting, hungry, and uncoordinated in that way that feels desperate. Like he’s trying to taste everything he’s missed and everything he’s never been allowed to want at once. I’ve got his uniform half-undone, and he’s still trying to pretend he’s in control, still trying to maintain some kind of order even as I drag him down into the chaos with me.

Poor, delusional man.

Shoving a mess of datapads and half-written reports that go scattering like they’re ashamed to be here, he lifts me with one hand and sits me on the edge of the desk like I’m the only mission left in his goddamn life. Then, he’s pulling my shirt over my head with a kind of reverence-turned-urgency that makes my skin prickle.

His hands go from firm to frantic, from reverent to possessive, palms trailing over ribs, thumbs grazing under my bra, mouth dropping hot and open-mouthed kisses over the swell of my chest like he’s forgotten air exists.

I arch against him with a sound that’s absolutely not a whimper. My hands are under his shirt, nails dragging down his back. He groans when I suck a bruise into his neck right below the collar, just low enough to make him think about it all day while he’s being saluted and addressed like he didn’t fuck someone across a desk twenty minutes before.

“You’re going to ruin me,” he sighs, breathless, dragging my pants down my legs. “You realize that, don’t you?”

I hope he's right. I hope he's so ruined he never looks at his pristine commander's desk the same way again. I hope every time he sits in his chair, trying to focus on whatever the hell colonels do all day, all he can think about is me.

"Good," I breathe, shoving his shirt up to drag my tongue across his abs. "Ruin me back."

His hands fist in my hair as I work my way down his body, sink to my knees, and slowly drag his zipper down. He's panting, chest heaving, hands flexing restlessly against my shoulders like he doesn't know whether to push me away or pull me closer.

I make the decision for him.

In one smooth motion, I tug his pants and briefs down just enough to free his straining cock. It springs up, hard, flushed and perfect. I lick my lips while looking up at him through my lashes as I wrap one hand around the base.

Slowly, I lean forward and swirl my tongue around the tip, tasting the salty bead of precum gathered there. He tastes like heady damnation, like danger, like every filthy thing I have ever been too afraid to admit I wanted.

He makes a strangled sound, hips twitching forward like he can't help himself. Encouraged, I take him deeper, letting him slide into the wet heat of my mouth inch by torturous inch.

I hum around him, and he curses, the muscles in his thighs tensing under my palm. I work my mouth over his shaft, sucking and licking, taking him deep until he hits the back of my throat. My hand strokes what I can't fit, twisting and squeezing in time with the bobbing of my head.

"Angel," he pants, hips starting to thrust shallowly, fucking into my mouth. "Shit, I'm gonna... You need to stop or I'm gonna..."

I pull off with a lewd pop, grinning up at him. "You're gonna what, Colonel? Cum in my mouth? All over my face?" I stroke him faster, thumb rubbing over the sensitive head. "Tell me what you want.”

Caleb pulls me up aggressively and spins me around, bending me over the desk. His hands are hot on my hips as he kicks my feet apart, spreading me open for him. "I want to bend you over this desk and bury myself in your tight pussy, fuck you so hard you forget your own name."

His fingers dip between my legs, finding me wet and wanting. "So fucking ready for me," he rasps, stroking through my slick folds. "So desperate for my cock, aren't you?"

I moan, arching my back to push my ass against him. "Please," I beg shamelessly. "I need you inside me."

With one hard thrust, he buries himself to the hilt, stretching me deliciously around his thick length. I cry out as he starts to move, setting a punishing pace right from the start. He pounds into me relentlessly, the desk shaking with the force of his thrusts.

He moves inside me like he owns every shattered, gasping part of me. He is not fucking me—he is claiming me, tearing me down to raw nerve and begging noise. It is annihilation, it is transcendence; he fucks me into a new shape, and I let him, I welcome it, I beg for it with every frantic, shattered breath.

His hand snakes around to rub my clit, and I nearly scream, the added stimulation almost too much to take. My thighs start to tremble, the telltale tingle building at the base of my spine. My cunt seizes around him, walls clenching, desperate to keep him buried deep, to drag him closer, to fucking merge with him if that is what it takes to survive the pleasure.

“Fuck, you're dripping all over my cock. Such a messy little whore for me.” His voice is heavy with intent, like every word is a slow, deliberate stroke against my senses.

The feel of him inside me is a brutal, perfect agony, every drag of his cock against soaked, throbbing flesh a new prayer of pleasure punched into my blood.

Every inch of me burns, every nerve firing, until I shatter in a burst of brilliance, blinding in its intensity, as every nerve screams with sensation. I'm distantly aware of him swearing as my inner walls spasm, locking him in a suffocating grip that feels like the last knot of a lover’s embrace.

He fucks me through it, never letting up, prolonging my pleasure until it borders on pain. Before I can catch my breath, he flips me over, hooking my legs over his shoulders as he drives back into my oversensitive pussy. I mewl, back arching at the exquisite amalgamation of pleasure and pain.

“Mine. You hear me?” He barks, pupils blown with lust as he drinks in the way he disappears into me. “No one else gets to have you like this. No one else touches you.”

"Harder," I demand breathlessly, my words staggered like someone barely holding onto their last thread of control. "Fuck me harder, Colonel. I can take it. Don’t you dare hold back on me."

I want him to use me until I am nothing but trembling limbs and broken whimpers, leaking and ruined and drunk on him, drunk on the savage bliss he feeds me.

He snarls, hips snapping forward with renewed force. The absolute strength of him, the power coiled in every muscle, is dizzying. He could break me apart, and I'd beg him for more.

It's base and primal, rutting together like animals in heat. There's no room for tenderness or affection, just a carnal need to fuck and claim and possess. I want him to wreck me so thoroughly that I feel the bruises of him tomorrow, to carve the shape of him into my bones so deep that no one will ever touch me without tasting him first.

"I love how fucking desperate you are for me," he praises, punctuating each word with a brutal thrust. "This pussy belongs to me. Say it."

"Yours," I pant, delirious. "All yours, only yours."

He rewards me with a rough circling of my swollen clit, fingers sending molten ecstasy through my core. Heat pools low in my belly, and then it spirals outwards, a violent, pleasurable storm that has me writhing.

"Gonna fill this cunt with my cum," he vows darkly, like a lullaby sung by a predator, sweet, soothing, promising nothing but a beautiful end. “Pump you full and watch it drip out of your ruined little hole."

I clench hard around him, a broken moan spilling from my lips. I'm past the point of coherent speech, reduced to wordless cries and desperate whimpers as he fucks me with single-minded intensity. I am so wet for him, so strung out on the obscene need he stokes in me, that every slam feels like it might kill me, and god, what a fucking way to die.

"Caleb," I sob, my voice utterly wrecked. "Please, I need... I'm so close..."

"I know, angel," he soothes, even as his hips piston into me at a merciless pace. The baritone of his voice rumbles against my skin, a bass note that vibrates through me, shaking my core. "I can feel it. This cunt is fucking throbbing for me."

He's right, I'm pulsing around him, greedily trying to pull him deeper. Every thrust drags along my sensitive walls, stoking the inferno coiling in my core. I cannot think, I cannot breathe; there is only the relentless claiming of his body against mine, staking me open from the inside like I am a kingdom he has conquered and set to ruin.

I can feel the heat building in my stomach, and when he presses his forehead against mine and says, “Come for me, now,” in that voice—the commander voice, the one that means orders—I unravel.

Messy. Loud. Completely undignified. It rolls through my body like a violently breaking wave, leaving me wrecked in its wake, desperate for the next crash.

He follows right after, hips stuttering in that perfect, helpless way that makes my toes curl. His whole body tightens, every muscle going rigid as he gasps, his breath coming out in sharp bursts. 

His release floods me in deep, hot waves that make my head spin. I feel him in every part of me, each pulse of his cock making my pussy echo with the same need, the same hunger. His voice is hoarse, a broken cry of my name slipping from his lips, and I’m completely, utterly lost in him.

We collapse in a pile of sweat on the wreck of his very expensive desk, both of us panting like we’ve just run a combat drill with no oxygen.

“…You’re going to have to submit a maintenance request for that,” I wheeze, looking at the cracked desk frame.

Caleb groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Yeah. I’ll just put ‘severe structural failure due to unrelenting Hunter ferality’ and hope the interns don’t read too far into it.”

I’m still sprawled on his desk like a pagan sacrifice to the gods of questionable decision-making, while Caleb is awkwardly trying to gather the wreckage of his composure.

“You broke my stapler,” he mutters, holding the poor, mangled thing up between two fingers.

“Pfft,” I scoff, swiping a pen off my back and sitting up with a wince. “It was either that or your spine, Colonel. Consider yourself lucky.”

“Right. Lucky.” He tosses the stapler in the trash and narrows his eyes at me, which would be intimidating if he wasn’t still flushed and hair-mussed and clearly having trouble standing upright without leaning on the desk.

It’s honestly kind of adorable.

“You’re smilin’ like a little gremlin,” he notes, buttoning up his uniform with shaking fingers.

“Just admiring my work,” I hum, swinging my legs and watching him try to tuck his shirt back in like a respectable military official who didn’t just defile his office. “You look absolutely railed. It’s my finest art piece.”

He points a very stern finger at me. “That was a one-time lapse in discipline.”

“Mmhmm.”

He gives me a look—somewhere between scandalized and impressed—and runs a hand through his hair. It doesn’t help. He’s still got that just-fucked glow, all flushed cheeks and bite marks I’m not sorry for.

“You’re impossible.”

“You like impossible.”

He leans in, brushing his lips over my cheek and the corner of my mouth. “I like you, pip-squeak."

Just like that, I’m melting all over again.

“Ugh,” I grumble, flopping backward onto the desk with a dramatic groan. “Now I’ve got feelings again. Gross.”

He laughs, warm and wrecked and all mine. “Don’t worry. I’ll knock ‘em back out of you later.”

I throw an arm over my eyes. “At least court me properly first, you degenerate.”

He nips my shoulder, all teeth and smug affection. “Fine. What do you want? Rations? Broken furniture? My eternal soul? Name it, it’s yours.”

I peek out from under my arm, squinting like I’m deeply considering it. “Hmm. I want rations and your soul and first dibs on all future office desks we defile.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Ambitious.”

“I’m goal-oriented. You realize,” I say, poking him in the ribs, “this is only the beginning. Conference tables. Briefing rooms. Storage closets. No surface is safe.”

“Storage closets aren’t soundproof, pip-squeak. You’ll have to be quiet.”

I snort, dragging my nails down his chest just to be difficult. “Or you’ll have to fuck me so good I forget how to make a sound. Your choice, Colonel.”

He chuckles darkly. “You’re a troublemaker.”

“I’m a visionary,” I correct, tugging him closer. “And you’re an accomplice now.”

Chapter Masterlist

The warmth of midmorning light kisses my skin, I stretch with the smug grace of someone in a mattress commercial and immediately freeze. There’s a sensation. A very specific, very horrifying sensation. 

Oh, fuck. No, no, no, no, no!

I fling the covers off and look down at the sheets only to be greeted by what can only be described as a modern art crime scene. An abstract splash of crimson devastation sprawled beneath me like I spent the night doing interpretive dance in the blood of my enemies sometime between REM cycles.

“Shit.”

I slap a hand over my face, already feeling the slow, dreadful ooze continuing its vile descent. This cannot be happening. I grab my phone from the nightstand with the urgency of someone disarming a bomb, click open my period tracking app, and… It’s right on time.

“How is that even possible?” I hiss at the phone like it personally betrayed me. “You’re supposed to warn me, not sneak up on me like some uterus ninja with a vendetta!”

I scroll back through my notifications. Oh, there it is. The little alert I completely ignored while I was either passionately screaming at Caleb or passionately fucking him like he was the last star in the galaxy and I intended to go supernova with his name clawed down my throat.

Launching myself out of bed, I survey the wreckage. The sheets are toast. The mattress is probably emotionally scarred. I’m leaking down my thighs like a haunted Capri Sun. I slap a hand between my legs like I can physically catch it, like I’m holding back a flood with sheer willpower and a prayer.

I barrel into the bathroom, rip open the cabinet, and—empty. I squat down and double-check. Back of the cabinet? Dust and shame. Medicine drawer? Not even a sad emergency panty liner. Bottom shelf? Caleb’s stupid fancy razors and overpriced face cream.

Who forgets tampons?! What kind of reckless, chaos-witch just raw dogs a lunar cycle with nothing but vibes?

Me. I’m the disaster, and the agent of my own undoing.

I look around wildly, grabbing the first thing I see: a sock. “No,” I mutter, horrified by my own brain.

Tossing it aside like it insulted my bloodline, I yank off a wad of toilet paper, rolling it into a lumpy little horror taco like I’m MacGyvering my way through a high-stakes espionage mission. I stare at it solemnly. Will this hold? Will this… tissue paper tampon of dreams stand strong in the face of the crimson tide?

It disintegrates in my hand.

New plan! I rifle through the drawer like a raccoon on a bender. My eyes land on a bright yellow microfiber cloth, and for one bleak, desperate second, I consider it.

A wave of silent despair washes over me. This is it. This is how I die. Not from some noble cosmic cause like enemy fire or a plasma explosion. No. I am going to perish in a puddle of uterine vengeance and improvised hygiene, naked and betrayed by biology.

There I am: awkwardly half-squatting over the toilet like I’m summoning a bathroom demon, one hand clutching a rapidly disintegrating wad of toilet paper, the other gripping the sacred microfiber cloth of desperation and regret when Caleb waltzes up to the bathroom door I apparently did not close in my frantic dash.

“Hey, pip-squeak, you want—”

Caleb stops. Dead. Mid-sentence. Mug of coffee in hand. His eyes lock on me.

Time halts.

I freeze like a deer caught sacrificing goats in the moonlight.

“Get. Out.” I shriek, flailing the toilet paper at him like a deranged exorcist with a very absorbent crucifix.

He blinks. Slowly. Like he’s not sure if this is real or a trauma dream. “…Is that a sock?”

“It was an option, Caleb! I am a resourceful and desperate woman!”

He stares, taking in the horror show: my legs clamped like a human nutcracker, hair a disaster, surrounded by rogue cotton, abandoned hope, and what looks like the aftermath of a sacrificial blood ritual.

Caleb, bless his heart, doesn’t immediately laugh. “I… I brought coffee.”

“I cannot drink coffee right now,” I hiss, voice cracking. “I am waging war against my uterus with household textiles.”

A tense silence descends. Then he snorts, chokes, and collapses into giggles so hard he has to lean on the doorframe.

“Oh my god,” he gasps between laughs, eyes watering. “Is this what happens when your period starts? Do you always go full menstrual MacGyver?”

“I forgot to pack tampons!” I screech, throwing the sock like a grenade of shame. “I was too busy either screaming at you or climbing you like a fire escape!”

He sets the mug down before he drops it, laughing so hard he’s wheezing like a dying accordion.

I glare with the fire of a thousand vengeful wombs. “If you don’t leave right now, I swear I will use you. As. A. Tampon.”

His face twists in the most dramatic grimace of horror, as if I just threatened to turn him into a sentient cotton swab. “The war gods,” he whispers, backing away slowly, “they are very angry.”

“I hate you. I am dying. There is blood everywhere. You’re dating a hemorrhaging embarrassment.”

And he—still laughing—just nods solemnly like he’s attending my tragic, period-fuelled funeral. “And I love you more every second of it.”

He saunters over to the cabinet above the bathroom counter like we’re not in the middle of a full-blown menstrual apocalypse. Opens it, reaches up, and pulls out a box of tampons.

Caleb turns around slowly, like he’s unveiling the Mona Lisa, and presents them with a flourish. “Here. Bought these last week. Figured you’d need ‘em.”

“You… what?”

“There’s pads up there, too,” he adds nonchalantly. “All the kinds. Wings, no wings, overnight, ultra-thin. I didn’t know which type you liked, so I just panic-bought the entire aisle.”

“You knew when my period was coming?” I squint at him like he’s just hacked into the mainframe of my uterus.

He shrugs, casual as ever. “I’m your boyfriend now. It’s in the job description. Monitor the lunar cycle. Prepare for the blood tide. Arm myself with chocolate, carbs, and, apparently, advanced knowledge of feminine hygiene.”

My bottom lip wobbles like a toddler who just dropped her ice cream. 

“Are you crying?” he asks, horrified.

“I don’t know!” I sob, clutching the tampon box to my chest like it’s the Ark of the Covenant. “This is either the creepiest thing you’ve ever done or the most beautiful!”

He spreads his arms wide in that classic, smug hug-the-hero pose. “Come on. Bring it in. Hug your weirdly prepared boyfriend who has read the leaflet inside a pad box and lived to tell the tale.”

I lunge at him like a deranged, snotty koala on a mission. He catches me easily, wrapping his arms around me with the gentle certainty of a man who’s already accepted his fate as a period support unit. He doesn’t even flinch when my towel shifts and I probably bleed on his shirt.

He strokes my back. “You’re okay.”

“I am not okay,” I wail. “I’m in the pre-cramp phase. I can feel them coming. Like satanic elves warming up for a CrossFit class inside my uterus.”

He pulls back just far enough to rummage in the cabinet again. “I meant to grab your painkillers.” He throws his head back dramatically. “I was so close to being the perfect period boyfriend. I had the snacks. I had the supplies.”

I sniffle into his shirt. “I’m going to marry you. Not now. But someday. Maybe during a hormonal spike.”

He pauses. “…Will I have to share a bathroom with you forever? Because—pip-squeak—I have seen things today. Things that have scarred me. Things involving socks and microfiber.”

I smack his chest, mostly for effect. He just grins, kisses the top of my head, and peels away from me with the solemn purpose of a knight on a holy quest.

“I’m goin’ out to get the good painkillers,” he declares. “The ones with the green cap and the label that sounds like a spell. Do you want anything else? Chocolate? Cheese buns? A personal flamethrower for your uterus?”

I lift a limp hand from my towel cocoon. “Maybe… a box of those double chocolate cookies with the fudge inside. And a Coke. And chips. Ketchup.”

“Knew you’d say that,” he grins, already summoning his jacket and wallet with his Evol. They fly across the room and slap into his hands with lethal force. He nods once, grave as a man heading into battle. “If I die in the feminine hygiene aisle… tell the pharmacist I fought bravely.”

He’s out the door like I just yelled, “There’s a clearance sale on engine parts.” I blink at the empty space he once occupied and groan like a wounded animal, dragging myself upright.

The doorframe becomes my cane. My thighs feel like they’re made of stone. My lower back? Humming like an angry wasp trapped in a metal drum, sending out distress signals that scream, Regret is nigh.

I manage to clean myself up like a tragic battlefield medic, then start stripping the bed, cursing under my breath at the literal bloodbath left behind. Halfway through wrestling the fresh fitted sheet onto the bed, disaster strikes.

The first cramp hits. I freeze, blink, and collapse onto the mattress like I’ve just been assassinated by an invisible sniper targeting my uterus for sport. The pain coils through me like Satan is wringing out my insides like a dish towel.

The sheets fall from my arms. I curl up like an overcooked shrimp, moaning into the mattress. “Why… do I have a uterus…? Whose idea was this? Who gave me organs?”

I have no idea how long I lie there, contemplating the sheer indignity of it all. Time loses meaning. I might’ve been there for ten minutes. I might’ve aged a decade. Hard to say. I hear the click of the front door. Caleb’s back already? That was record time.

My brain immediately conjures the most likely scenario: Caleb, storming into the store with righteous determination and a basket, using The Voice. Not his regular voice—no, Colonel Caleb Voice™. The one that makes grown soldiers stand up straighter and children drop their lollipops.

I imagine him dramatically sidestepping a line of confused civilians like a man on a mission, barking, “Fleet business. Critical. Step aside. We’ve got a Code Red.”

Snacks flying. Store clerks cowering. Someone saluting for no reason. Children whispering legends of a man who once bought five types of cookies with the intensity of a war general.

Okay, full honesty? I hate that voice when we’re at Fleet HQ. But there’s…something about it. The way people scatter when he walks in. The sheer dominance in his stride. The fact that if he points at someone and says move, they move.

It’s objectively annoying. Also, unreasonably hot. Ten-out-of-ten, would straddle him in the war room and make him forget his clearance code.

“Inara?” Caleb’s voice, soft and tentative at first, then sharper when he doesn’t immediately spot my crumpled form. “Where—ah.”

He finds me starfished pathetically on the bed, eyes glazed, limbs locked in fetal formation.

“Oh, pip-squeak…” His whole voice changes. He sounds like a prince who’s stumbled upon his damsel in distress—if the damsel was bloated, furious, and lightly sweating.

He crouches beside me, brushing sweaty strands of hair from my forehead. “Can you turn around for me?”

I groan like I’m being asked to lift a car. My movements are glacial. Snail-like. Heroic, honestly. But I manage to uncurl myself with the elegance of a sloth with a pulled muscle.

Caleb situates a heating pad under the waistband of my pants and adjusts it like it’s a precious relic, carefully, reverently, then presses it over my stomach.

Sweet merciful heavens, it’s instant bliss. I gasp. Tears spring to my eyes.

He hands me a glass of water and two painkillers like I’m a wounded woodland creature that might bite. “Here. Got the ones with the green cap. And I brought Coke, cookies, chips… and ketchup. You know. For… morale.”

I blink up at him like he’s descended from the heavens in sweatpants and pilot boots. “You’re the best,” I croak. “Like, obnoxiously so. It’s disgusting.”

“I’m just tryin’ to outdo your uterus,” he smirks, easing me back down onto the bed like I’m made of glass and hormones. “Not an easy opponent. She fights dirty.”

He brushes a kiss to my temple. “Rest. I’ll finish the bed. Then we’re watchin’ the dumbest show TV has to offer while you eat enough sodium to kill a small horse. That’s an order.”

Once he has finished cleaning up my mess, he strolls back into the room, takes one look at my fetal shrimp formation, and gives me the kind of soft smile that could melt steel. He sits beside me and starts rubbing my back like he’s trying to lull a feral cat into trusting humans again.

“How’re you doin’, pip-squeak?”

I lift a shaky thumbs-up like I’ve survived a plane crash. “Still alive. Mostly. Your heating pad is a miracle. You should get a medal.”

“You remember when we were kids and you used to get sick? We’d steal every pillow in the house and build that ridiculous little fort in the living room. Sheets hanging from chairs. Chips hidden like we were squirrels. TV marathons ‘til we passed out.”

A slow, nostalgic smile curls on my lips. “Of course I remember. You always insisted on being the fort ‘commander.’ You even made me salute.”

He smirks. “Chain of command is sacred. Someone had to lead the resistance against… flu symptoms and adult supervision.”

I snort. “You tripped over your own cape and dive-bombed the juice boxes.”

“That was a tactical retreat,” he concludes with mock dignity. “And a brilliant one. Confused the enemy.”

His expression softens again, warm and just a little mischievous. “Want to do it again? I can drag the spare mattress out, build Fort Nostalgia, deluxe edition. Blankets, snacks—real battle station energy.”

My eyes round. “Yes. Oh my god, yes. That sounds like heaven.” Just as he starts to stand, I snag his wrist with exaggerated flair and bat my lashes like a princess about to request a small crime. “Wait. Can I do it? With your Evol?”

He squints at me like I’ve just asked to borrow his liver. “You want to use my Evol? To move a mattress?”

I nod with the wide-eyed innocence of someone who absolutely should not be trusted with powers that bend the laws of physics. “Please? It’ll be fun! I promise I won’t destroy anything!”

Caleb stares at me in silence. “You do remember the last time I let you use my Evol, right? You tried to ‘gently levitate’ the couch and instead launched it through Gran’s drywall like it was a battering ram.”

“That was years ago,” I retaliate with great offence. “And only because you never let me practice.”

“That’s because you launched furniture at heirlooms, Inara. Her antique plate collection had to be picked out of the ficus.”

“That was gravity’s fault,” I sniff. “Also, technically, your Evol. I just directed it. Badly.”

He drags a hand down his face like a man trying to erase the memory of broken porcelain and family shame. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

I beam. “So that’s a yes?”

He stares at the ceiling, possibly praying, sighs, arms flopping like he’s accepting a doomed mission. “Fine. The risk is worth the nostalgia.”

“Yes!” I fist-pump weakly from my side of the bed, victorious in a way only the truly dramatic can be. “Prepare for fort magic.”

“Please do not destroy the house,” he mutters as he heads off to move breakables, mentally rearranging the room like it’s an incoming war zone.

Honestly, his faith in me is wildly low for someone who once ate a crayon because I told him it would make his tongue purple forever. But I’m about to get a full cuddle fort, complete with gravity manipulation and deluxe snacks, courtesy of the best boyfriend-slash-long-suffering Evol instructor in the galaxy.

“Alright, come here, troublemaker,” he grumbles, swooping down and scooping me up bridal-style like it’s just another Tuesday.

I squeak. “Okay, rude. I’m extremely capable.”

“You’re extremely bleeding and shaped like a crescent roll. Let me carry you before you fold yourself into a tortilla.”

He strides us toward the spare room, and I feel the hum of his Evol beneath my palm, vibrating through his chest like a second heartbeat. It’s that eerie, quiet kind of power, like standing on the edge of a black hole with full trust fall energy.

“I’m going to resonate with you,” I whisper, already syncing with his Evol without waiting.

“Obviously,” he replies like a man who has accepted his fate. “I’ve already made peace with the fact I’m going to die in this house. Possibly crushed under a floating snack shelf.”

“Shut up. This is going to be fucking majestic.”

The moment I fully sync with him, it hits me like I’ve just been launched into low Earth orbit with zero training and a bag of chips. Every object in the room has a presence, a glowing, pulsing, “move me, chosen one,” kind of aura in my mind’s eye.

The mattress? Oh, the mattress is practically singing to me. Radiating potential. Whispering sweet nothings like, “Launch me, goddess of gravity.”

I turn to Caleb, eyes wild with power and mattress lust. “The mattress,” I breathe. “She’s ready.”

“Okay,” he begins, clearly regretting everything that has led us to this exact moment. “Let’s maybe just slide it gently—”

It’s too late. I am the mattress now. We are a singular being of foam, springs, and unearned confidence.

“No—wait—lift from the centre—!”

…Oops.

The mattress doesn’t just move. It yeets sideways like it’s trying to escape a haunted house, slamming directly into the bookshelf. Books explode into the air like startled pigeons, flapping through the chaos of their new airborne lifestyle. A picture frame bounces off the wall and does a dramatic spin before hitting the ground in defeat.

Caleb yelps like a man betrayed and immediately wrests back control of his Evol before I can accidentally level the rest of the spare bedroom.

“CENTRE. OF. MASS,” he bites out, trying and failing to sound stern while choking on laughter. A lampshade is still spinning on its side like a dying Beyblade.

“I panicked!” I cry, hands still dramatically aloft like I’m summoning ancient forces. “Why did it go left?!”

“Because you yanked it like a toddler having a meltdown in a toy aisle!”

Caleb carefully puts me down, then steps behind me with the wariness of a man defusing a bomb. His hands slide over mine, steady and sure.

“Okay. Try again,” he encourages, cheek brushing mine, his voice soft like spring rain and emotional damage. “Breathe. Feel it settle. Don’t yank. Coax it.”

“Coax it?” I mutter, side-eyeing him. “You want me to seduce the mattress?”

“If it keeps it from launchin’ into the kitchen, then yes.”

I breathe in slowly, tuning in, fingers twitching with intent. The mattress gives a faint shiver, hovering mid-air like it’s about to be recruited by NASA.

Caleb murmurs near my ear, “There you go. That’s my terrifyin’ space goddess.”

I grin so wide my cheeks hurt. “You’re just saying that so I don’t fling it at your face next.”

“Correct.”

We guide it slowly into the living room, side-stepping the crime scene that was once a bookshelf. The mattress lands with a soft fwump in front of the TV. Caleb helps me tuck blankets around the edges like it’s an art installation, piles pillows with the solemnity of a man performing ancient rites, and hurls snacks into a bowl like a five-star chaos chef.

The room looks like a tornado passed through and then decided to stay for movie night. It’s perfect. When we finally collapse into our newly crafted fort, I’m sweaty, still crampy, and emotionally unbalanced, but also grinning like a maniac.

We settle, limbs tangled, snacks close, blankets pulled up to our ears like we’re preparing to weather a romantic storm. Caleb presses a kiss to the crown of my head before handing me the remote like I’m the queen of this ridiculous castle.

“Your Highness,” he purrs solemnly. “Choose our poison.”

I scroll for about two seconds before landing on Love Detour: Second Chances. The premise? Absolute garbage fire. Couples who have broken up in spectacularly messy fashion agree to go on a cross-country road trip together in a glorified tin can, aka a camper van, to see if they can “rekindle their connection.”

Caleb squints at the screen like it just personally insulted his intelligence. “Okay, wait. What is this?”

“It’s about emotional terrorism,” I inform him, deadpan. “And also, trying to find love again while being trapped in close quarters with someone who ruined your life.”

He groans. “No. No, Inara, please. I cannot withstand this level of stupidity.”

“You say that now,” I sing, waggling the remote at him like it’s a loaded weapon, “but just you wait.”

Five episodes later, Caleb is captivated. “Okay, hold on,” he says, sitting bolt upright. “The guy with the man bun—Brandon, right?—he cheated on her twice but now wants to get back together because he ‘misses her energy’? What does that even mean?!”

“It means he’s delusional,” I reply, shovelling popcorn into my face like I’m watching the fall of Rome.

“And why is Alyssa still here?! She literally said—and I quote—‘I feel dead inside when he talks.’ That’s not love; that’s a warning from your nervous system!”

“Because she has main character syndrome,” I explain patiently, “and she’s holding out for a spin-off.”

He sighs, hand over his heart like he’s just lost a battle he never meant to fight. “I hate that you’ve sucked me into this.”

“No, you don’t,” I smirk, licking salt off my fingers. “You love it.”

“I hate how much I do love it,” he mutters, eyes still glued to the screen.

By the time episode eight starts, Caleb’s whisper-screaming commentary is more entertaining than the show itself. We lie there like that for hours with Caleb emotionally compromised by a man named Zayden with neck tattoos, me basking in my trash TV supremacy, both of us warm and buried under blankets in the coziest little disaster fort this side of the galaxy.

Caleb turns to me with the slow blink of a man who has lost faith in humanity but somehow can’t look away. “This is brain poison.”

“Correct, but it’s delicious brain poison. Don’t think I didn’t see you flinch when Brandon said, ‘I’ve changed.”

“I wanted to launch him into the sun,” He grumbles, muffled by the blanket. “He has a podcast, Inara. A podcast where he talks about crypto and ‘emotional maturity.”

“Oh god.” I clutch my imaginary pearls. “We have to take him out.”

Caleb turns his head slowly to look at me, one brow raised. “Colonel Caleb will not rest until justice is served.”

There it is. That stupidly commanding, bossy, Fleet-issue tone that shoots directly into my spinal cord like it’s got clearance to override my nervous system.

I blink at him. “Say that again.”

“What?”

“The way you just said it. ‘Colonel Caleb will not rest.’ God, that voice.”

He frowns like he doesn’t quite follow. “You mean my regular voice?”

“No, no. The voice you use when you’re yelling at rookie pilots. When you’re reading comms reports and doing that thing where you flex your jaw like you’re about to arrest someone with your disappointment alone.”

His eyebrows slowly ascend into the stratosphere. “You’re not… into that voice, are you?”

My head snaps toward him so fast my neck cracks. “Into it? Caleb. I would burn down a civilian outpost just to hear you recite emergency evac protocols in that voice. I would commit war crimes for it.”

Caleb groans and covers his face. “You are unwell.”

“Say something fleety,” I beg, grabbing his arm and shaking it. “Please. Just give me, like, one standard flight command.”

“I am not doin’ this,” he laughs, trying to roll away.

“Sir,” I bark in my best impression of a fleet cadet. “Requesting command input, sir.”

He squints at me, exhales in the most put-upon way imaginable, sits up straighter, and—

“Cadet Inara, execute evasive manoeuvre delta-7. Recalibrate inertial dampeners and prepare for atmospheric breach. You have fifteen seconds. Do not make me repeat myself.”

My soul leaves my body. This is like foreplay for people with a voice kink.

“Holy shit,” I breathe, fanning myself. “That was so hot, I need a tactical cold compress.”

Caleb looks entirely betrayed by his own power. “You are the worst.”

“Say ‘negative, commander’ next,” I demand, poking his side. “Like you’re scolding someone who’s being cocky in a briefing.”

“Negative, Commander.”

I practically melt into the mattress. There’s a pause. He stares at me. I stare back, wild-eyed and panting like a Victorian-era man seeing an exposed ankle. He gives me a long, considering look.

“…What?” I ask, instantly suspicious.

A slow, wicked grin pulls across his face. “So, you like the Colonel voice, huh?”

Oh no. I’ve fucked up and exposed my weakness. Mistakes have been made.

“I say a lot of things when I’m dehydrated and emotionally compromised,” I argue, which is a lie, and we both know it.

He leans in, dropping his voice to a rich, authoritative murmur that’s somehow louder than a shout. “Cadet Inara, stand by for further instruction.”

My soul actually leaves my body this time. Just exits through the roof. Gone. Goodbye. “Okay,” I breathe, white-knuckling the popcorn bowl. “That’s unfair.”

“Oh, is it?” he asks innocently, lounging back against the pillows like a man who’s just discovered the launch codes to my entire brain. “Initiate primary thruster sequence and prepare for acceleration.”

“Stop it,” I hiss, clutching my face like it’ll keep my blush from leaking out.

“Maintain current trajectory. Target locked.”

“I could file a formal complaint,” I warn, pointing a finger at him. “Abuse of command tone. Emotional sabotage. Weaponized discipline kink.”

He shrugs. “Standard protocol for a level-seven flirtation scenario.”

“Oh my stars,” I groan, falling sideways into the pillows.

He rolls with me, arms sneaking around my waist as he whispers into my ear, “Initiating close-range docking protocol.”

I involuntarily make a noise like some kind of startled rodent. He grins into my shoulder, smug, evil, and warm as a sunflare.

“Caleb,” I whisper, “you’re going to die for this.”

“Permission granted, Commander. Death by cuddles imminent.”

Now he’s holding me hostage, wrapped around me like a living weighted blanket, still whispering half-serious fleet jargon like it’s dirty talk while I attempt not to astral project straight onto his cock. I should push him off. I should fight back. I should absolutely not be melting into his arms like butter on a fusion coil, but here we are.

Buried in a nostalgia fort, under three blankets and one deeply swellheaded space pilot, whispering flight commands into my ear like he’s trying to make me come.

Honestly? Peak romance. 

Chapter Masterlist

Caleb and I are locked in a standoff of wills—like two ancient stars caught in gravitational pull, each refusing to collapse first. We orbit around the same jagged truth, neither one of us willing to yield, both so convinced we can shoulder the fallout if it means sparing the other.

This isn’t a noble war. There are no medals waiting on the other side of this silence, no triumphant return. Only the slow erosion of trust. This is the kind of fight that eats you from the inside out.

“How did you get the DAA reports?” Caleb asks, voice taut as a wire strung too tight.

“Does it fucking matter?” It snaps between us like a breaking branch.

He steps forward again, the space between us closing like a fist. I can see the pulse at his neck now, fluttering too fast for someone trying to play it calm. The question he asked wasn’t for answers—it was a litmus test. A check to see how far I’ve strayed from the girl he once thought he could protect by caging.

I suppose this is where I break the illusion.

“Did you really think I’d stay that naïve little shadow, Caleb?” My voice is steady, but under it lies an ache I haven’t had time to name. “That soft-spoken child who trailed behind you, wide-eyed and waiting to be told what the world is?”

His gaze hardens, but I don’t stop.

“You locked me in an attic and called it protection. You told me to trust you and then left me with silence and shadows. I believed you because I wanted to, but that girl?” I shake my head. “She died when you did. I’ve had to carve the truth out of locked doors and half-told lies. I’ve had to unlearn how to be sweet so I could survive. I bled for answers. I earned them.”

His jaw tightens, his hands fisting at his sides. That flicker of guilt—the one he hides so carefully—it flashes behind his eyes like a glitch in a perfect simulation. I blow past him, out of the office that’s starting to feel too small, and into the kitchen. He follows me but makes no effort to stop me.

“You’ve gotta stop this reckless search, pip-squeak. This path only ends in destruction.”

The word destruction cracks against the air between us. Damn it all, why does he have to sound so hot when he’s mad? That voice. It’s gravel and gunmetal, like he’s been screaming into space and came back with the stars still caught in his throat.

“I’ll never stop,” I declare, slicing the air with my hand. “I will walk through decades of darkness if that’s what it takes. I will unravel every lie, every secret, every carefully buried truth. I don’t care if it takes one lifetime or five—I will find the answers.”

His face twists, all sharp lines and flared frustration, and then he shouts, “Do you always have to be so fucking stubborn?!”

Yes. Obviously.

I let him have the moment of self-righteous fury, his helpless hands raking through that gorgeous mess of hair, because I’m benevolent like that.

… Also because my brain has devolved into some kind of hormonal swamp.

Every angry twitch of his jaw just drags me deeper into the quicksand. I’m furious—blindingly, righteously, violently angry—but my body’s over here filing for lust-induced treason.

He looks like a storm I want to crash headfirst into, fists clenched, morals shredded, dignity very optional. The worst part is? He’s so mad he’s beautiful—wild, untethered, eyes burning like twin stars about to go supernova, and it’s ruining my life.

Caleb rakes both hands through his hair like he wants to tear it out, pacing back and forth. “Why are you doing this!?”

I march up to him, and he stiffens. I can see in the tight set of his shoulders and the bracing tension in his jaw that he’s ready for a slap, a shove, or maybe a punch to the gut. He deserves it, but I flick him right on the forehead instead.

He blinks, stunned.

“I love you,” I admit softly. “That’s why. You big dummy.”

For a beat, he just stares at me, thunderstruck, breath caught somewhere between disbelief and desire, and then the air snaps taut between us.

The kiss is anything but gentle—it’s a collision of fury and longing, wild and raw, like we’ve both been set alight and only each other can douse the flames. Our mouths crash together with a hunger that startles even me, teeth clicking in the frenzy, lips parting with no patience or poise.

His hands snap to my hips like magnets, dragging me up against him with a force that borders on desperate. One of mine fists in his shirt, the other tangles in his hair, yanking hard enough to draw a feral groan from deep in his chest.

He bites my bottom lip, and I gasp against his mouth. Yes. That’s it. That’s the flavour of the storm I’ve been tasting since the second he opened his mouth to argue. His anger bleeds into mine and fuses with this overwhelming need, this ache that makes my bones feel like molten metal.

We kiss like we’re trying to punish each other with love. Like if we press hard enough, bite deep enough, pull close enough, we can stitch the damage shut between our ribs. His hand slides up my back, catching the nape of my neck, dragging me deeper, closer, as though any space between us is an insult to gravity itself.

Caleb tastes like frustration and fear and every goddamn reason I can’t walk away from him. Somewhere in the middle of lip-biting and breath-stealing, I realize I am absolutely, hopelessly ruined for this man.

Even when I want to strangle him.

Especially then.

His hands roam my body with a ferocity that makes my knees weak, gripping and grasping at every curve. I'm panting into his mouth, my hips grinding against his in a rhythm that's all instinct and no finesse.

He spins me around, hands rough on my hips as he presses me against the kitchen counter. His lips are on my neck, teeth scraping, tongue soothing the sting. 

"You drive me fucking crazy," he snarls against my pulse point. "I can't think straight when I'm around you.”

I moan, arching into him, desperate for more contact. "The feeling is mutual," I manage to pant out.

His hands are everywhere, sliding under my shirt, cupping my breasts through the thin lace of my bra.

"I'm going to make you scream my name until you forget every reason you were ever mad at me."

I moan as he pinches my nipples roughly, sending jolts of pleasure straight to my clit. "Then stop talking and fuck me already.”

I reach back, fumbling with his belt, my fingers clumsy with urgency. Caleb helps me, shoving his jeans and boxers down just enough to free his hard, throbbing cock. He rips my shirt over my head and tosses it aside before removing my bra.

"Is this what you want?" he demands, each word rasps out like a match dragged across stone desperate to catch fire. "You want me to fuck you, right here in the kitchen?"

"Yes," I hiss, beyond caring.

His hand sliding down my stomach to the waistband of my leggings. With one swift yank, he tears them down my legs along with my panties, and I kick them off to the side. He kicks my feet apart, and I feel utterly exposed, my ass in the air, my dripping cunt on display for him. The vulnerability only heightens my arousal. I'm so wet I can feel it trickling down my thighs.

He grips my hips bruisingly tight and rubs the thick head of his cock through my slick folds, teasing my entrance. I try to push back onto him but he holds me still, chuckling darkly. His fingers find my clit, rubbing firm circles that make my legs tremble and quake.

"You want it rough, baby?" His voice stumbles over the edge of restraint, a low thunder as he yanks on my hair, making me whimper. "I'll give it to you rough."

His fingers plunge into my soaked cunt without warning, pumping hard and fast. I cry out, my inner walls clenching around the welcome intrusion. He finger-fucks me mercilessly, his thumb rubbing tight circles on my swollen bud. Each touch winds the spring inside me tighter, a slow crescendo climbing toward a note I’m longing to reach. 

Just as I'm about to come, he withdraws, leaving me empty and aching, and I whine in protest. He shoves two fingers into my mouth, making me taste my own arousal. 

"Suck," he commands, and I obey, hollowing my cheeks and swirling my tongue. 

He groans, pressing his rigid cock against my ass. I reach back to stroke him, loving how hard and thick he feels in my hand. I twist my wrist on the upstroke, squeezing just how he likes.

"Just like that," he grunts, thrusting his hips and fucking my fist.

I'm so turned on it borders on painful. I need him to fuck me more than I need my next breath. His hands are on my throat like a prayer, and I don’t know if he’s worshipping or warning me. I don’t care. I’ll take both.

Caleb slaps my pussy, and I yelp, juices gushing out to coat his fingers. Grabbing my hips, he notches the swollen head of his cock at my entrance. With one brutal thrust, he slams into me, burying himself to the hilt. I scream wantonly, my pussy convulsing around the sudden intrusion. He's so big, stretching me deliciously.

"Fuck yes, so tight," he grunts, pulling out and slamming back in, setting a punishing pace.

We move like enemies pretending to be lovers, or maybe it’s the other way around. Anger coils in my belly, but it melts into want so easily it makes my head spin. I hate him for it. I love him for it. I don’t even know the difference anymore.

His fingers dig into my hips as he pounds into me, the filthy slap of skin on skin echoing in the kitchen. His strokes are hard and deep, each one shoving me forward on the counter. My nipples drag across the cold countertop, making me whine. Caleb’s hand comes down on my ass in a stinging slap, and I mewl, clenching hard around him.

"Fuck, do that again," I pant.

He obliges, spanking me again and then soothing the sting away with a careful caress. His hand snakes around to rub my clit, and I nearly combust. Every thrust is a taunt. Every kiss, a cruel reminder of the way he knows me. My body opens for him like it’s desperate to be conquered, but my mind is screaming. Still, I take him. Over and over. Like surrendering to the enemy wearing your lover’s skin.

I can feel my orgasm building. Pleasure blooms, not like a flower, but like wildfire licking its way through every nerve. He bites down on my shoulder, and I cry out, the pleasure-pain that climbs like a scream swallowed too long and begs to break free.

My nails scrabble against the countertop as he rails into me, hitting that place buried so deep it feels like touching the centre of a supernova—rapture expanding so violently it blinds.

“Fuckin' cum for me,” he commands, possessive, edged with promise and demand, sin given breath. “Now, Inara. Fall apart for me.”

His command sends me flying over the precipice. My orgasm crests ruthlessly until I am nothing but pulse and ache, torn open at the seam. I come undone in his hands like I was made to be ruined by them, like this is the truth my body’s always known. I convulse around him, inner muscles rippling along his thickness.

“Good girl,” he praises.

Caleb fucks me through it, his strokes growing erratic as his release approaches. He slams into me one last time, spilling himself deep inside me with a groan that sounds like my name strangled in velvet, hips jerking, body trembling with the force of it.

His fingers dig into my skin, bruising, claiming, like he can anchor himself in me while the rest of him burns. There’s reverence in the way he says my name—wrecked, breathless, worshipful. As if he’s thanking me for destroying him. As if he’d let me do it again.

And I would. Stars help me, I would.

We collapse against the counter, both panting harshly. My legs feel like jelly, and if it weren't for Caleb's strong arms around me, I'm sure I would slide to the floor. For a long moment, we just stay like that, him softening inside me, our sweat-slicked bodies heaving together. The anger has burned away, leaving behind a sated lassitude.

So… angry sex with Caleb is pretty damn phenomenal. I should piss him off more often. Noted.

"Fuck, that was intense," he finally says, pulling out of me with a slick sound that makes me shiver.

I let out a breathless little laugh. "Yeah, no kidding."

Caleb turns me around in his arms and kisses me, this one soft and sweet. He cups my face gently, his thumb stroking over my cheekbone. "You okay?"

"Mmmhmm," I hum contentedly, basking in the afterglow. "More than okay."

"Good." He drops another light kiss on my lips before stepping back. "Come on, let's get you cleaned up."

Caleb guides me to the bathroom, one arm securely around my waist. I'm still a bit unsteady on my feet. He sits me down on the closed toilet lid and dampens a washcloth with warm water. Tenderly, he wipes the sweat from my brow and the sticky remnants of our lovemaking from between my thighs. His touch is soft, almost reverent, a stark contrast to the passionate roughness from minutes ago.

Once I'm clean, he scoops me up and carries me to the bedroom. He lays me down on the bed and pulls the covers over us as he spoons behind me, strong arms encircling my waist. I snuggle back into his warmth with a happy sigh. We’re wrapped around each other like tangled constellations, our bodies still humming with the aftershocks of everything we poured into one another. “Did you mean it?” he asks, his voice low and unsure, threaded with the kind of hesitation he rarely lets slip.

“Mmm?” I mumble, barely awake. “Meant what?”

He hesitates, then presses a kiss into my hair, brushing it gently back from my face. “Never mind, pip-squeak. Sleep.”

I feel him nuzzle his face into the top of my head, exhaling like the weight of the world has been set down. The anger that lit us up earlier is gone now, melted into this tender, quiet kind of peace.

A sleepy giggle bubbles up in my chest, and I try to bite it down, but it escapes anyway, small and breathy.

He tilts his head, his voice drowsy but amused. “What’s so funny?”

I shift, turning over to face him, bones heavy with exhaustion but heart impossibly light. The room is cloaked in the kind of darkness that makes the world feel soft and slow, but I can still see the shimmer of his eyes, like frost catching a beam of moonlight, like secrets he’s still not sure how to say out loud.

I reach up and sweep his hair back, fingertips brushing over his temple. Then I press my forehead to his, our noses nearly touching.

“I meant it,” I whisper, barely louder than the rustle of the sheets. “I love you, Caleb.”

He goes still. Then inhales, sharp and shivery, like the air suddenly weighs more than it should. His chest lifts beneath mine, and when he exhales, it comes with the softest, broken little breath. I feel the tremble in his shoulders. The warm brush of moisture against my cheek. He’s crying.

Caleb is crying.

I blink, confused. “Hey—hey, what’s up?” I whisper, lifting my head to look at him, brushing my fingers under his jaw. “Did I say something wrong? You don’t have to say it back if you’re not ready—”

He lets out a low, breathy laugh, rough around the edges. “You’re such an idiot,” he murmurs, dragging me in like the world might end if I pull away for even a second.

He holds me like I’m the last safe place he’s ever known, one hand at the back of my head, cradling me close. “I love you too,” he says against my skin, voice thick but steady now. “I always have.”

The first thing I feel is fingers slowly brushing through my hair, like they’re trying not to wake me but failing on purpose.

“Pip-squeak,” Caleb whispers, close enough for his breath to stir the baby hairs on my forehead. “Time to get up.”

I groan and roll away from the sound of his voice, dragging the blanket higher over my head. “No. Go away.” I swat in his general direction like a lazy cat and promptly burrow deeper, wedging my face beneath the pillow like an ostrich in denial.

He laughs, an honest, belly-deep laugh that shakes the bed as he sits down beside me. “Come on, you drama queen,” he teases, tugging at the pillow with a gentle jiggle. “It’s not even that early.”

“It’s war crimes early,” I mumble into the sheets, curling tighter. “Five more minutes. Just five, I swear.”

“What if I told you… I have coffee in my hand right now?”

A pause. My resolve wavers. I peek one eye open, suspicious.

“There’s bacon in the oven, too,” he adds, lips twitching.

I lift my head an inch. “Did you just say… meat candy?”

“Mhm.” He nods, proud of himself. “Thick-cut. Maple glazed.”

“You should’ve led with that,” I grumble, yawning so hard it makes my eyes water. 

I stretch, spine cracking, then reach out with grabby hands for the coffee mug he’s holding like it’s the Holy Grail. He hands it over without a word, watching me sip like a dragon hoarding warmth.

“Better?” he asks.

I nod, eyes still half-lidded.

He leans in and presses a kiss to my forehead. “Good, and don’t even think about fallin' back asleep. Next time, it’s the ice.”

I freeze—no pun intended—and peek up at him with genuine horror. “You wouldn’t.”

“You know I would,” he smirks as he ruffles my hair. 

By the time I shuffle into the kitchen, hair still damp from the shower and Caleb’s oversized hoodie hanging off one shoulder, the smell hits me like a freight train of glory.

Pancakes stacked like golden monuments. Bacon so crisp it could shatter. Fluffy scrambled eggs, homemade whipped cream that looks like it belongs on the cover of a dessert magazine, and a scatter of strawberries and blueberries like some culinary artist painted the table. There’s even a tiny dish of butter cut into aesthetically pleasing little curls, because of course there is. 

Colonel Caleb, secret breakfast god.

I nearly moan on sight. “You made all this?” I ask, like someone who’s just walked into a dream and doesn’t trust it.

He shrugs. “I have a feeling someone is hungry this morning.”

I sit. No—collapse. And then proceed to eat like I’ve just escaped prison. Syrup drowns my pancakes. Whipped cream piles like snowy peaks. It’s a chaotic, sugar-drenched masterpiece. Carbs and saccharine joy. The only fuel I acknowledge.

I’m mid-bite with an unholy stack of pancake, berry, and whipped cream crammed into my mouth when Caleb sets down his coffee and leans back with the casualness of a man about to ruin me emotionally.

“You’re a little freak, aren’t you?”

I pause. Slowly turn my head. Cheeks ballooned out like a hamster storing winter supplies.

He lifts his mug like he’s toasting me. “Seriously, Inara. I never would’ve pegged you for a nymphomaniac. But wow. Wow.”

The sound I make is somewhere between a snort and a dying walrus. I try to swallow, cough, slap my chest, and then—because I am nothing if not classy—spray a little whipped cream across the counter.

“You wait until my mouth is full to hit me with that?!” I wheeze, waving my fork at him while my eyes water from laughing.

He grins like the smug bastard he is, sipping his coffee with zero remorse. “I figured it was safer. You can’t murder me with pancakes in your mouth.”

“Debatable,” I gasp, dabbing my chin like I’m suddenly fancy. “I could learn.”

“And that, right there,” he says, pointing at me, “is the freak energy I’m talkin' about.”

I flip him off, still chewing. He just smiles wider and steals a berry from my plate like he owns the world.

I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m the freak? That’s rich coming from you.”

He raises an eyebrow, sipping his coffee like a man entirely confident in his moral superiority. “Pretty sure the evidence speaks for itself, pip-squeak.”

I set my fork down slowly, deliberately, and clear my throat with all the theatrical gravitas of a stage performer about to monologue. Then I drop my voice an octave, throw in just the right amount of gravel, and adopt his stupid cocky smirk.

“Do you want me to fill this tight little pussy up with my cum? Beg me for it, Inara,” I echo in a breathy growl, mock-widening my eyes. “Beg me to fill you until you’re dripping.”

Caleb freezes and promptly chokes on his coffee.

He bends forward, coughing violently, smacking a hand against the counter while sputtering, “I—what the hell—I do not say that!”

I grin, undeterred. “You absolutely do. With feeling.”I lean against the counter, swirling the last bite of syrup-drenched pancake through a cloud of whipped cream. I clear my throat and moan theatrically, “I could eat this sweet pussy all day.”

His jaw drops. “That is not what I sound like!”

I raise an eyebrow, enjoying this far too much. “You take my cock so well.”

“Inara!” he groans, dragging both hands over his face. “You’re—this is slander.”

“Verbatim,” I sing-song. “Want me to keep going?”

“I’ll die before I let you quote me mid-pancake again.” He glares at me, but it’s ruined by the smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

I shrug, shovelling another bite into my mouth. “Then maybe don’t call me a freak while I’m chewing.”

He lets out a long, suffering sigh and mutters, “Unbelievable,” under his breath, though he’s still smiling as he walks past and plants a kiss on the top of my head.

“Admit it,” I say, grinning around a mouthful. “You’re just mad because it was hot.”

He doesn’t deny it. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t. You love me. You told me so, remember?”

He groans and drops his head onto the counter beside me, face buried in his arms. 

Victory tastes like syrup and smug satisfaction.

Chapter Masterlist

I hear him before I see him. The soft, rhythmic thud of palms meeting floor, the sharp exhale of effort, the subtle grunt that sounds entirely too sinful for this early in the morning. I rub the sleep from my eyes, shuffle toward the sound like a moth to a half-naked flame, and peer around the corner.

There he is.

Shirtless and glowing like the sun itself decided to try out being a man. Push-ups. Slow, steady, heroic ones. Muscles flexing in perfect harmony. I swear I hear a choir of angels harmonizing in the distance.

I lean against the wall, sipping my coffee. He’s like a mythological warrior training for his next quest—except instead of fighting dragons, he’s fighting my will to behave.

Eventually, I wander over, and, because my love language is annoying my unjustly handsome boyfriend, I casually plop myself on top of his back like a satisfied goblin claiming her dragon’s hoard.

He dips slightly but keeps going like I’m just a very affectionate weighted vest.

“Morning,” I greet, scrolling through my phone like I’m not currently disrupting his centre of gravity. “Did you know snails can sleep for three years straight?”

“Mm,” he grunts, clearly fighting a smile. “Jealous?”

I scroll again. “Here’s a fun one: wombat poop is cube-shaped. I feel like that would be a choking hazard for predators and also just a very aggressive way to poop.”

He chuckles under his breath. One crack. One glorious crack.

“Did you know there’s a kind of clam called a geoduck that lives for 150 years and looks like a literal penis? Google it. I’ll wait.”

He exhales sharply through his nose, his form starting to wobble, and I can feel the internal screaming.

“Oh, and some snakes have two penises. Two. A biological ‘buy one, get one’ situation. Imagine the group chats.”

That does it. He loses it—his arms give out, and we collapse to the floor in a heap. I drape myself over his back like I’ve just taken down the final boss.

“Victory!” I cry dramatically. “You have been bested by my encyclopedic knowledge of animal weirdness and general chaos.”

He rolls over slightly so he can look at me, breathless and half-laughing. “How do you know any of this?”

“I’m a well-rounded individual,” I reply proudly, poking his cheek. “Also, I once fell into a Wikipedia hole at 2 a.m. and emerged as a new, terrifying person.”

Caleb smiles—one of those soft, stupid smiles that makes my insides feel like a melting marshmallow.

“You’re a nuisance.”

“Deep down, you like your mornings spiced with unhinged animal facts and unsolicited clam images,” I declare, putting on my most angelic smile and batting my lashes.

He reaches out and brushes a strand of hair from my face. “No,” he coos softly, “I love ‘em.”

And just like that, my heart betrays me again. Stupid, fluttery thing that it has become. 

Caleb rests his head against the floor. “You gonna let me finish my workout now, gremlin?”

I grumble dramatically, roll off his back like a sack of potatoes, and crawl toward my abandoned mug of coffee. “Ugh. Fine. Be boring.”

Settling cross-legged on the floor, I sip and watch as he launches back into his routine—this time switching between standard push-ups, one-armed ones, and something that looks like it violates the laws of physics and shoulder sockets.

I’m running on an obscene amount of energy for this early in the morning, but I have a sneaking suspicion that’s because I passed out the moment my body hit the couch last night. Like a phone that reached 1% battery and just gave up.

I squint at him, piecing it together. “Wait… did you carry me to bed last night?”

“Yup,” he says, still mid-rep.

A pause.

“Did you also undress me?”

That gets him. He falters for half a second, arms dipping before he catches himself. “Should I not have? You were still in jeans, pip-squeak.”

I suck in a dramatic breath. “How dare you.”

Caleb immediately pushes up to a kneeling position, hands raised in surrender. “Wait—hold on. Are you actually mad? I just—your jeans had rivets. That’s cruel and unusual sleeping conditions.”

“Oh no,” I exclaim, rising to my feet, voice trembling with fake offence. “You’ve shattered my innocence, Caleb. You buttoned down my sins.”

“Inara—” He’s visibly panicking under the weight of my Oscar-worthy performance.

“I can’t believe you’d treat me like that while I was unconscious!” I cry, turning on my heel like I’m storming off.

He scrambles to his feet. “Wait, seriously, let’s talk about this—”

“How would you feel,” I spin on him, pointing dramatically, “if I undressed you while you were passed out?”

He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Honestly? Go ahead. You’ve seen everythin’ by now.”

“Oh?” I grin, mischief blooming in my chest. “So you wouldn’t mind?”

“I literally just said—”

Before he can finish, I lunge forward and yank his workout shorts down in one swift motion.

“HEY—!” He squawks, startled, and I cackle, bolting down the hallway.

“INARA!” Caleb’s voice ricochets off the walls, half laughter, half scandalized disbelief.

I’m already halfway down the hall, shrieking with laughter as I skid around the corner into the bedroom like a cat on hardwood.

“You’re dead, pip-squeak!”

“You undressed me first!” I shout back, launching myself onto the bed and scrambling over it like I’m scaling a mountain to freedom.

“That was mercy! You were wearing denim to bed! I didn’t wanna wake you!”

He’s fast, but I’ve got the advantage of chaotic energy and bad decision-making on my side. I vault off the far end of the bed, barely dodging his grabby hands, and sprint through the open door to the gym.

He nearly catches me there, but I duck just in time, limboing under his arm like I’m in a drunken dance competition. “Too slow!”

I dive between the weight bench and the treadmill like a woman possessed, knocking over a foam roller in my escape. He’s right behind me, footsteps thunderous, determination blazing in his eyes. 

Honestly? I’m a little bit, or a lot, turned on right now. 

I burst out the back door and careen into the yard. The sun is way too bright.

“Stop runnin’!” Caleb yells from behind me. “Be an adult and accept the consequences of your actions!”

“Never!” I holler, slipping around a lawn chair like it’s a race car track. “I THRIVE IN IMMATURE CHAOS!”

I double back toward the porch, heart hammering, lungs burning, and just when I think I might actually win this—

Strong arms wrap around my waist and lift me off the ground like I weigh nothing at all.

“NOOO!” I shriek, kicking my feet wildly as he spins me in the air.

“YES,” Caleb growls, triumphant. “You’re caught, pip-squeak. Justice has been served.”

“You wouldn’t dare.”

He sets me down slowly, arms still around me, and leans close to my ear. “Try me.”

“…You’re not gonna pants me in retaliation, are you?” I ask, half-laughing, half-terrified.

He hums, mock thoughtful. “Tempting.”

“Caleb, if you strip me on this lawn I swear to every star in the sky—”

He kisses my cheek. “Relax. Your punishment? Hmmm, I’m makin’ you carry in the groceries later.”

I groan, flopping dramatically against his chest. “You monster.”

“I learned from the best.”

Touché.

The grocery store is a battlefield. Not the fun, dramatic kind with laser guns and space debris—no. 

This is the modern hellscape of too-narrow aisles, screaming toddlers, carts parked like someone’s playing retail Tetris, and people standing in the middle of the cereal section like they’re contemplating the meaning of life through the lens of bran flakes.

Somehow, I have volunteered as tribute.

Caleb walks beside me, perfectly relaxed. One hand in mine, the other pushing the cart like a domestic god. I, on the other hand, am staring at my shoes like they’ve suddenly become the centre of all human innovation.

If I don’t look at anyone, no one can look at me. That’s the rule. That’s science.

"You doin' okay, pip-squeak?" Caleb checks.

“Yeah,” I mutter. “Just trying not to accidentally make eye contact with someone and get roped into some weird pyramid scheme about essential oils or homemade soap.”

He chuckles. “You’d be the worst recruit.”

“I would,” I agree. “I’d smile and nod while secretly Googling if I could get away with selling essential oils by just pouring out half a bottle of dish soap and calling it ‘Lavender-infused Dream Serum.’”

We turn into the produce section, which is at least slightly less apocalyptic. Caleb expertly places me in front of him so he’s my human shield against rogue carts and spatially unaware strangers. 

It’s kind of adorable how seriously he takes it. Like he’s expecting someone to jump out from behind the kale with a shopping list and a vendetta.

I whisper, “I think that old lady with the apples has murder in her eyes.”

Caleb doesn’t even flinch. “Don’t worry. I’ve fought off worse. Remember that time you tried to parallel park?”

“Rude,” I mumble, but I’m grinning, tension bleeding out of my shoulders as we move through the quieter section of the store. 

He steers me like a pro, taking us through the less crowded aisles like he’s studied the terrain and prepared a full tactical plan. Which he probably has. This man could pilot a ship through a meteor storm—grocery shopping is child’s play.

“Want me to handle the baking aisle on my own?” He teases, nudging me gently with his elbow. “I know it’s your personal boss level.”

“It’s too narrow,” I sigh dramatically. “There’s nowhere to run. The carts block every escape route, and the flour bags are always judging me.”

He snorts. “They are a smug bunch.”

“I just came here to buy snacks, not face my deepest fears.”

“You’re doing great,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb across the back of my hand. “Very brave. Ten out of ten grocery warrior.”

“I want that on a t-shirt.”

“I’ll print one the second we’re home.”

Most people don’t spiral into existential dread when they reach for a can of soup. Caleb never makes me feel silly for it. He just quietly keeps me safe in the produce warzone, holding my hand like it’s the only thing anchoring me to Earth.

Freedom tastes like slightly overpriced iced coffee and the blessed silence of a car door closing behind me.

After the horror show that is the Skyhaven grocery store—and a few more errands that blur into a carousel of parking lots, scanners that do not beep, and one very enthusiastic old man trying to sell Caleb a juicer—we finally head back to the only place I feel truly safe these days: the invisible fortress nestled in the middle of nowhere, lovingly hidden away by whatever technological wizardry Caleb has whipped up.

As soon as we step inside, I kick off my shoes and prepare to collapse into the couch like a Victorian maiden with a weak constitution.

But Caleb? Caleb is a man of principles.

“Nope,” he insists, plucking the iced coffee from my hand like I’ve broken some sort of sacred code. “You said you’d help carry the groceries. Come on, grocery warrior. Let’s see those battlefield skills.”

“I hate you,” I mutter, but drag myself back outside like a martyr with three degrees of social exhaustion and a tragic backstory.

I carry the bags that crinkle and rustle and smell like garlic and dignity. Caleb, meanwhile, walks beside me, smug as hell. Every time I reach for something heavier, he watches. Not helps. Just watches, arms crossed, like he’s judging an Olympic event.

By the time I get to the case of water bottles, I pause, sigh dramatically, and fix him with a squint. “You’re the one with the robot arm. How much can that thing lift, anyway? Does it have hydraulics, or is it just for show?”

His brows shoot up, like I’ve surprised him. Good. I meant to.

It’s the first time I’ve brought it up since… well, since I saw it. I do it casually, like I’m asking about the weather, because I want him to know I’m not tiptoeing around it. I see him. The good, the bad, the… uh, metal, and I’m not going anywhere.

He smirks, leaning on the doorframe. “It’s pretty strong.”

“Strong enough to do pull-ups on?”

He huffs out a laugh. “Could you do pull-ups at all?”

I gasp. “Excuse you.”

“Excuse me?” he echoes, openly grinning now.

“I absolutely can do pull-ups.”

“Mhm.” He lifts his arm and flexes it dramatically. “Alright then, show me.”

I stare at him. Then at the arm. Then back at him. “You’re not serious.”

He just raises an eyebrow, pompous as ever.

“Fine,” I lament, stepping forward. “But if I fall and break my dignity, that’s on you.”

“I’ll catch you, but I’m not responsible for your pride.”

I jump up, my hands gripping his arm, and somehow—against all odds—actually manage to do what I consider is an impressive amount of pull-ups. Three. AND A HALF! 

I feel like a goddamn superhero.

“Ha! How’s that for a little pull-up action, huh?” I grin, feeling like I could conquer the world with my noodle arms.

Unfortunately, those noodle arms are already betraying me. When I go to grab the case of water, it’s like trying to lift an entire planet off its orbital path. My arms shake under the weight, my fingers barely wrapping around the damn thing, and I give it a half-hearted tug, making a noise somewhere between a grunt and a whimper.

Caleb’s grin widens as he watches my struggle. Oh, he’s loving this.

I think I might collapse under the weight of a case of water, because obviously my ego wasn’t enough to carry me through the rest of the day.

With one smooth motion, he scoops me up, sitting me comfortably on his arm, while also grabbing the case of water with maddening ease. I glance at him as he saunters inside like it’s no big deal. 

“Can’t let you do all the heavy liftin’,” he winks with that playful, self-assured smirk. 

We’re in the middle of putting the last of the groceries away when Caleb’s earpiece buzzes. The Fleet doesn’t seem to care about weekends, holidays, or anything resembling personal time. 

They’ll call him at all hours, day, night, morning… with stuff. Whatever stuff is, I have no idea, but I know it’s never anything good.

Caleb presses the earpiece, his expression shifting into that stern, clipped tone he always uses with them—far removed from the warmth I’m used to hearing from him. “Yes?”

Silence for a beat. 

“Good. Send it to me,” he commands, each word like a frozen shard.

Just like that, the conversation ends with a click.

I roll my eyes but keep quiet, finishing putting away the last of the groceries. I already know what’s coming next—his attention is about to be consumed by whatever mysterious task the Fleet’s sent him.

“I have to review somethin’,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “But it shouldn’t take long. After I’m done, we can bake cookies, or more accurately, you can watch me bake cookies.”

I wave him off. “Go ahead and take care of your Fleet business.”

As he disappears down the hall, I sink into the couch, remote in hand, the TV glowing as some trashy reality show unfolds—exactly the kind of guilty pleasure you wouldn’t want anyone to know about. The kind that’s bad in all the best ways.

Peace doesn’t last long.

I hear his footsteps first. They reverberate down the hallway, and I freeze. His arrival folds into the room like a storm cloud slipping through the seams, saturating the air until it’s velvet-thick, pressing down on my lungs with the hush of a held breath. 

Then, he stops.

His eyes find me—serrated as drawn blades, stripped of their warmth. What once held galaxies now glints like obsidian. It burrows beneath my skin, a crawling tension I can’t quite name, and yet… I’m rooted, caught in his stare like a pinned insect under glass.

I hesitate before pausing the show, almost as if I don’t want to break the stillness that’s settled between us. “What’s going on? Why are you looking at me like that?”

His answer is simple, clipped, and devoid of anything even remotely friendly. “Follow me.”

It isn’t a request—it’s a command, fortified with iron. My jaw clenches, the motion tight and slow, a silent act of rebellion. I weigh the thrill of defiance, of staying rooted and staring him down until one of us fractures. 

The air between us hums, volatile and electric, daring me to rise. So I do—every motion deliberate, a declaration etched in the line of my spine. I don’t blink or look away. 

Neither does he.

I follow him into his office. He waits for me by the desk, arms crossed and posture drawn tight as a bowstring.

He points to his computer screen. “When were you here?”

The picture on the screen is grainy and dark, barely recognizable, but I know that crater. 

My gut twists, but I force the lie out. “What are you talking about?”

His hand comes down on the desk with a crack, making the office feel too small and tight, but I refuse to flinch.

“Inara, I’m not fucking around. I’ll give you one more chance to rethink your answer. I ask again, when were you there?”

My lips bend into a smile, a brittle crescent carved from ice. Inside, a chill unfurls—quiet, creeping, merciless. “I said, I don’t know what that is.” The words leave louder, thrown like a gauntlet at his feet. Daring him to challenge me.

A shadow fractures through his eyes, meteoric violet flickering like a warning light before the blackout. I stand my ground, though every nerve in my body howls to flee. His lips peel back, not in a smile, but in the quiet snarl of a predator who’s just decided it’s time to bite.

He turns, and with a couple of sharp taps on the keyboard, the screen changes. The grainy image disappears, replaced by a video—grainy, glitching, jagged snapshots of me in that facility.

“Would you like to amend your statement now?” He growls.

I stand my ground, my chest tight, every muscle in my body ready to lash out. I don’t even blink. “No.”

Caleb’s stare churns like a sky on the verge of breaking, and the space between us hums with a peril I can’t name but feel in my bones. He doesn’t utter a word, yet the room bends around him, gravity folding inward, as if even silence is compelled to obey.

He moves like a loaded weapon—smooth, precise, inevitable. Every step he takes, I answer with one of my own, retreating only when I must. The wall finds me before I can decide what to do next, cool against my spine, but I don’t wilt. My chin lifts. My eyes hold his like twin blades drawn in defiance.

Caleb stops just short of touching me, his breath ghosting over my skin. His hands slap the wall on either side of my head, sealing me in a cage made of flesh and fury.

His eyes rake over my face, searching, calculating, betraying nothing except that something in him is wound too tight.

“You’re keeping secrets from me,” he accuses, low and lethal, like I’m one of his subordinates.

I laugh—if you can call it that. It’s more of a weapon than a sound, brittle as a bone snapped under pressure. “You wanna preach to me about keeping secrets?”

The words burst out before I can stop them. Everything I’ve been holding back, all the questions gnawing at my insides, spill out in a rapid fire.

“Why did my Evol unlock that damn backdoor programming? Why did I feel like I knew that facility like it was home? Who the hell is A-01? What is Project X-Aether?”

Caleb’s jaw tightens, his breath steady, but he doesn’t reply. His silence only makes my frustration burn hotter.

“You’re not going to answer, are you?” I hiss, my voice rising. “Just like you never answer.”

He’s close enough to burn, but the words that fall from his lips chill me to the marrow—each syllable a blade dipped in snow. “You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

The words explode out of me like a cannon. “You’re a goddamn hypocrite. You’ve got a closet full of shit you’re not telling me. You’re the one I can’t trust.”

I hurl every ounce of fury into my palms and slam them into his chest. He doesn’t move—not a twitch, not a flinch. It’s like striking the side of a mountain and expecting it to bleed.

My eyes narrow as I realize the futility of it. I duck under his arm, sidestepping him and heading straight for his desk.

“Let’s discuss secrets, shall we?” I hiss, glancing over my shoulder while my fingers fly across the keyboard. 

The hidden, encrypted file slides into view, and I feel an intoxicating rush of satisfaction settle as I pull up the backdoor to unlock it.

When I glance at Caleb, his posture tightens, a subtle flex of muscle, and his jaw clenches, as if trying to cage whatever storm is brewing beneath his calm. He’s not the steady force he pretends to be.

“What are you doing?”

I keep my focus on the screen, pulling up the command prompt and running a script I’m all too familiar with. The encryption falls away, piece by piece, as I slide into the file with the video files. Each one pops up in a separate corner of the holographic display. 

I access my watch, scroll through the official DAA reports, the cold, clinical ones that show exactly when Caleb went missing, the days he disappeared, and the fact that he was in the hospital for a full month. 

The images blink into life on the central display.

I turn around, my stomach burbling with blind animosity, and I lock eyes with him. “You lied. You said you had special training, but you were in the hospital for a month after going missing.”

Caleb stands there, frozen, his eyes darting between the holographic images on the screen and my face.

“Care to explain that?” I demand, my voice steady, though my hands are trembling.

There’s no apology in him, no sign of remorse. Just silence.

I take a step forward, no longer willing to tiptoe around the truth. “Secrets are like radiation, Caleb. Keep them buried long enough, and they stop protecting people—they start poisoning them.”

Chapter Masterlist

Tara’s apartment is cozy in that messy, lived-in way—plush throws tossed over the back of the couch, snack wrappers peeking out from under a cushion, and the soft glow of LED lights coiled around the edge of the ceiling. 

She disappears into the kitchen and returns with snacks—two bowls of chips, some gummies, and a fizzy drink I don’t recognize.

“Figured we’d need fuel,” she chirps, beaming as she leads me toward the corner of the room where her computer setup lives.

It’s… insane. Five curved monitors wrap around the desk like a command centre. The LEDs glow in soft blues and purples, casting the whole area in this futuristic glow that makes my fingers twitch with envy.

“Okay, hold on—this is fucking beautiful.” I step closer, wide-eyed. “Tara, how do you function with all this power at your fingertips? Do you ever feel like you could hack a satellite and no one would stop you?”

She laughs, flopping down into her chair. “Only on Tuesdays.”

I hover beside the setup like a kid who’s just spotted their dream bike. “I’ve never seen a rig like this in real life… What’s it like gaming on it? Do you just—ascend?”

“Pretty much,” she grins. “Wanna try it later?”

“Obviously,” I say, half-joking, already mentally planning what I’d want to boot up first.

She spins toward the keyboard, cracking her knuckles. “Alright, what exactly are we trying to find?”

I sit beside her, picking at a gummy bear before answering. “A DAA report for a pilot that went missing about one and a half years ago.”

Tara chews on a chip, nodding as she scrolls through windows and opens up a command prompt. “Okay. They have a secured archive, but I might be able to build a backdoor into their record system—like a diagnostic port. Once we’re in, we can scrape the data from the inside out.”

I gently place my hand on her forearm, stilling her. “Are you sure about this, Tara? This isn’t exactly… you know. Legal. I don’t want to drag you into something you’ll regret.”

She laughs, carefree and completely unfazed. “Inara, please. I’ve poked around more secure systems just for fun. Besides, you took coding at the Academy, didn’t you?”

“Yeah,” I murmur, a little shy. “Aced it, too.”

“Then let’s get our hands dirty.” She cracks her knuckles dramatically. “Captain Tara, at your service.”

“Alright, boss. Just tell me what to do,” I smile with a theatrical salute. 

Tara slides over a second keyboard and nods toward one of the side monitors. “We’re going to launch a signal spoof first—something to keep their firewall distracted while we slide under the radar.”

I pull up the terminal and start typing. “Like a heartbeat packet loop?”

“Yes! You do remember,” she bubbles, delighted. “Okay, I’m working on a recursive shell to mask our IP. You start the ping flood, and I’ll cloak our origin point.”

We work in tandem, fingers flying, our screens filling with lines of code. There’s a little thrill in the pace of it, the tension between risk and reward. 

Tara mutters as she works, “Redirecting system logs… rerouting packets through sandboxed nodes… okay, almost there.”

“I’m in the diagnostic port queue,” I inform, eyes locked on the blinking cursor. “Running dummy commands.”

“Perfect, that’ll buy us just enough time.” She leans closer, tapping in a long string of encrypted code, “Backdoor’s open. Ready to search. What’s this pilot’s name?"

I swallow, my throat suddenly dry. “Caleb Xia.”

Tara’s head snaps toward me, eyes going wide. “Your boyfriend?”

I nod slowly. Tara’s gaze lingers for a beat longer than normal, but to her credit, she doesn’t pry.

“Alright,” she murmurs, “let’s see what your mystery man’s been hiding.”

It takes a little longer than we expect, but eventually, a detailed report finally loads. Tara’s hands fly across the keys, opening files, isolating data, and copying it to an encrypted drive. My stomach flips, anticipation gnawing at me.

She glances at me with a smug grin. “Got it. All the records associated with your boy.”

We race through the last few steps to cover our tracks, wiping all traces of our presence from the system. Once it’s done, she leans back in her chair and glances at me.

“Mission accomplished,” she winks, handing me the drive.

“Nice work, captain,” I tell her and reach over to give her a high five. 

She grins, slapping my hand with exaggerated enthusiasm, and then we both go into our secret handshake. It’s goofy, stupid, and totally ridiculous, but right now, it’s exactly what I need.

By the time we finish, we’re both laughing, catching our breath, and my shoulders finally loosen up. It feels good, this brief moment of lightness. She gets up, stretching as I push myself off the chair, and we plop onto the couch in a tangle of limbs, still giggling like a couple of teenagers.

Tara pops open a can of something carbonated, and she looks at me, her expression turning serious for the first time all evening. “So… is everything okay with you and Caleb?”

“It’s… complicated.” I look down at my hands, tracing the lines of my fingers.

She reaches out, putting a hand on my arm, squeezing gently. “Inara, I’m here for you, okay? If you ever need to talk about it—really talk about it—I’ve got you.”

I smile faintly, appreciating her kindness, even if it doesn’t ease the knot in my chest. “Thanks, Tara. It means more than you know.”

She tilts her head, studying me for a second before letting out a little laugh, her usual carefree self returning. “But seriously, you’ve got some pretty intense chemistry with that guy, huh?”

I snort, rolling my eyes. “I guess you could say that. But I think it’s more… unstable chemistry than anything else.”

“Hey, sometimes that’s the best kind,” she teases, nudging me with her elbow. “Keeps things interesting. Better than being bored out of your mind, right?”

I can’t help but laugh. “Caleb is many things, but boring has never been one of them.”

Tara gives me a sly grin, eyes sparkling. “You know, if things don’t work out with Caleb, I have some perfectly good alternative suggestions. I’m just saying, I know a guy who’s very into…” She trails off, raising her eyebrows suggestively.

I burst out laughing, shoving her away. “Tara, no. Stop. I’m not looking for a backup right now.”

She shrugs, completely unbothered. “Well, I just thought I’d mention it. You never know. Maybe a little Tara matchmaking magic could help.”

I roll my eyes but can’t suppress another laugh. “You’re insane, you know that?”

“I know.”

We settle back against the couch, the easy banter flowing between us as we continue to relax. For the first time in days, I let my thoughts drift away from Caleb and all the uncertainty surrounding him. We talk and play some games until the sun is dipping below the horizon, casting the sky in shades of purple and orange.

“I should get going. Thanks again, Tara. Seriously. I owe you one.”

She waves me off, her grin wide and bright as always. “No problem. Anytime, Inara. Just, you know, next time, don’t make me break the law too much.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “I’ll try not to.”

We share a quick hug, and then I step out into the streets of Linkon, the cool evening air brushing against my skin. I pull my jacket tighter, trying to shake off the heavy thoughts weighing down my mind.

There’s a strange kind of quiet that settles over the city at dusk—a lull between the bustle of daytime and the revelry of night. I walk slowly, half-lost in thought, letting the neon signs colour my path.

The sound of my boots tapping on the pavement echoes around me as I make my way through the streets. A sudden prickling sensation on the back of my neck pulls me out of my thoughts. 

Something doesn’t feel right.

I look over my shoulder, but the street is as empty as ever. The streetlights flicker as I continue walking, and I can’t shake the sensation that someone’s watching me.

My pace picks up as the feeling grows stronger. I turn onto a busier street, the sounds of traffic and voices filling the air. I glance over my shoulder again. This time, I swear I see someone in the distance, just out of my line of sight.

I make a quick turn into a dark, tight alley, the kind of place where you can’t help but feel like the walls are closing in on you. As I round a corner, I stop and wait, melting into the deepest shadows. My fingers curl around the grip of my gun, my heart steadying for the inevitable confrontation.

“It’ssssss you,” he croons, stretching the ‘s’ sound like it’s made of honey and venom. “Don’t be sssssshy.”

I turn slowly, gun raised, eyes narrowing on the figure. His face is sharp, all hard angles and shadowed ridges, as if sculpted by a merciless hand—and his eyes gleam with a hunger that feels more beast than man. He’s tall, lean, wrapped in dark clothes that seem to swallow the light around him.

“What do you want, Viper?” I snap, keeping the gun steady in my hand.

He does not answer—only looks, dissecting me with a surgeon’s precision and the weariness of a man who has tried, and failed, to piece me together too many times.

“Have you ssseen it?” He asks, voice dropping to a near whisper. “Hisss arm?”

My heart skips a beat. He’s talking about Caleb’s arm, the one that’s been driving me insane with questions.

“What do you know about it?” I demand, stepping forward, keeping the barrel of the gun aimed at him.

Viper tilts his head, eyes narrowing in amusement. “More than you,” he teases, that wicked grin never leaving his face.

A shiver runs down my spine. “Tell me.”

He laughs, a short, harsh sound, his tongue flicking out like a serpent tasting the air. “You’ll ssssee sssssoon enough.”

My heart races, and I can feel the walls closing in again. Viper knows something about whatever the hell is going on. Before I can get another word out, he steps back.

“Wait!”

Viper turns his head but doesn’t fully face me, his long form slithering in the half-light of the alley.

“Whatever they put in Kevi,” I start, my thoughts racing. “Caleb has one too, right? A chip?”

Viper pauses. “The Toring Chip, yessss,” he hisses, his smile crooked and unsettling.

I take a step forward, my pulse quickening. “How do I get it out?”

His smirk widens. “Sssssilly girl,” he sneers, his voice full of mocking affection. “You don’t.”

 The words hit me like a punch to the gut. You don’t. Two syllables—small, keen things—but they slice straight through me, deeper than I expect. Like glass shards tucked into a wound, invisible until it twists.

My breath catches. The world doesn’t tilt or spin; it just stops. Hangs there, in suspended horror.

No!

No, that can’t be right.

That chip is not just metal and programming—it’s a cage, a muzzle, a leash choking him just beneath the surface. It’s the silence in his laughter, the stillness in his rage. It’s the thing pressing his soul into a shape it was never meant to hold.

If we can’t get it out…

The thought unravels me. A slow, creeping grief begins to bleed through my ribs, something raw and festering curling in my gut. Like mourning a death that hasn’t happened yet—but will. Over and over again.

Because if it stays, then this isn’t just who he is now. 

It’s all he’ll ever be.

I shake my head. “No. I can’t accept that. There has to be a way. What does it do exactly?”

Viper’s smile is serpentine and convoluted, like he’s enjoying the game. He pulls something from his pocket and drops it on the ground at his feet without a word, then looks up at me one last time.

“You’ll ssssee,” he promises softly, a final warning before he steps back into the shadows. “You’ll ssssee.”

He vanishes, and I’m left standing there in the silence of the alley. I glance down at the ground where he dropped whatever it was. It looks insignificant at first, just a small, dull object. When I lift it, holding it between my fingers, it hums against my skin like a threat.

It’s a small device—slightly rounded, metallic, and engraved with the words “Toring Chip Implanter. For use by the Farspace Fleet only.”

I tuck it into my pocket, and for a moment I just stand there, feeling the weight of it press against me like a buried scream.

If that chip is the thing keeping him locked behind glass, then I’ll find the hammer. I’ll shatter every lie, every law, every goddamn chain they’ve wrapped around him.

I don’t care what it takes. I’ll crawl through blood and fire. I’ll become the nightmare they never saw coming.

Because they don’t get to keep him, erase him, or use him for their gain.

Let them try to stop me. 

Let them see what I become when there’s nothing left to lose.

As soon as I’m through the door, I throw the deadbolt and press my back to it. The Toring Chip Implanter burns in my pocket like it knows it doesn’t belong. I hurry to my bedroom, shove aside an old shoebox in the closet, and lift the false bottom. The device goes in there, hidden beneath old photos and Caleb’s broken watch I never had the heart to throw out.

I grab my laptop from the desk and crawl onto my bed, tucking my legs under a blanket. The encrypted drive Tara copied the files onto is still in the front pocket of my jacket. I plug it in and run the decryption software. It takes a second—long enough for me to question whether I’m ready for whatever I’m about to learn.

The file folder pops open. I open the written reports.

File Name: GRADFLT_XIA-X-02 – Final Flight Report (Restricted)

Subject: Graduation Flight Assessment – Pilot Caleb Xia

Candidate Caleb Xia launched from Skyhaven Runway B-3 at 07:34 hours.

Flight path consistent with simulation 42-A until 08:12 hours, at which point radar data registers deviation due to spontaneous Protofield anomaly.

Visual contact lost at 08:15 hours.

All attempts to establish contact via comms unsuccessful post-08:16. Comms presumed damaged.

Base ordered abort. No response.

File Name: LOSTCON_XIA-X-02 – Search and Rescue Attempts

Search grid expanded from coordinates 1123-A to 1147-K.

Recon craft dispatched daily. No debris field located. No energy signature consistent with standard engines detected.

SAR status changed from “Active Search” to “Low Probability Recovery” on Day 3.

Subject officially listed as “Lost, Presumed Deceased” as of 21:00 hours on Day 4.

File Name: REACQ_XIA-X-02 – Recovery & Extraction Log

Distress beacon activated at 04:12 hours. Origin traced to floating micro-island cluster X-9, on the outer fringe of Skyhaven airspace.

Recon and medical team deployed at 05:07.

Subject Caleb Xia recovered alive, non-verbal, exhibiting signs of dehydration and acute disorientation.

File Name: MEDHOLD_XIA-X-02 – Post-Recovery Medical Evaluation and Hold

Subject Caleb Xia admitted to Skyhaven Medical Ward Alpha following recovery operation.

Initial assessment notes include:

• Three fractured ribs (left side)

• Pulmonary contusion and moderate lung collapse (left lung)

• Dehydration, malnourishment, and significant muscular atrophy

Subject exhibited signs of acute stress response (non-verbal episodes, elevated heart rate under duress).

Psych eval recommended. Subject declined evaluation and was cleared for release after 34 days with physical clearance but without formal psychiatric discharge.

Final note: Medical records sealed under Order #FSS-XA312, classified Level 3.

I stare at the last report, the text blurring slightly as my fingers tremble on the trackpad. A full month in the hospital. Broken ribs, lung damage, near starvation—and he never said a word.

Not once.

It crashes through me like a rift tearing open in the dark—the lies didn’t begin with the Fleet or the Toring Chip. No, the rot started long before, threaded into the seams of us.

"Did you honestly think I would always be the kindhearted boy from your childhood?” He once said to me quietly, like it hurt to admit.

I wonder if he was trying to warn me. Because the truth is, I don’t know if I ever really knew him at all.

The boy who used to pull me out of trees when I climbed too high, who used to sneak me snacks and swear me to secrecy with chocolate on his cheek—was that him? Or was that just a version he wore for me? Something soft he could shed when the time came?

Did I fall for a ghost of someone that never truly existed?

I press the back of my hand to my mouth, trying to stifle the rising ache in my chest. The worst part isn’t the lie. It’s the possibility that there never was a lie to begin with—just a truth I refused to see.

Maybe he has always been this version of himself, and I was just too in love with the past to notice.

My workweek passes in a blur of back-to-back missions — long hours, no breaks, barely enough time to eat or sleep. By the time I’m finally able to stop and breathe, it’s Friday. 

The holy grail of weekdays. My light at the end of the tunnel. 

It’s supposed to be my happy day. The day I drag my exhausted body to Caleb’s little oasis in the sky, sink into that ridiculous cloud-soft couch of his, and pretend nothing exists.

So how in the fuck did I end up at the mall with Tara and Jess, standing in front of a full-length mirror while Jess debates the existential meaning of chartreuse?

This was not the plan.

Apparently, the plan changed the moment Jess said the words “big date,” and Tara clapped her hands like we’d all just been selected for a game show. The next thing I knew, I was being strong-armed to join with the promise of pretzels and emotional blackmail.

I don’t know anything about fashion. My relationship with clothes can be summed up as: Does it fit? Can I run in it? Great, it’s mine. Jess, on the other hand, is currently weighing the hem of a sparkly red number like it contains the secrets of the universe.

I cross my arms and sigh. “How do I let myself be talked into these things?”

Tara snorts, not even looking up from her seat where she’s scrolling through shoe options on her holopad. “Because you love us. Also, because I said you looked like a ‘sad space raccoon’ and you took it personally.”

“That was a low blow.”

“Accurate, though.”

I grumble under my breath and stare longingly at the exit. I could be curled up in Caleb’s arms right now, sipping tea and listening to him ramble about engines and weird space anomalies. Instead, I’m stuck in a boutique under mall lighting, which is probably illegal under some kind of intergalactic torture clause.

Jess spins in the mirror, eyeing me with hopeful eyes. “What do you think? Is this too much?”

I squint at her. “Too much what? Fabric? Colour? Existential dread?

Jess sighs. Tara cackles.

I’m never getting that pretzel, am I?

I hate malls. The people, the noise, the way everyone’s talking like they’re trying to out-volume a starship engine. Salespeople eye you like you’re a rogue asteroid about to damage their perfectly arranged racks, and for some inexplicable reason, I always get bumped into. Every. Damn. Time. 

It’s like I’m invisible—right up until someone’s shoulder collides with mine and mumbles, “Oops,” like it’s my fault for existing in their path.

Jess steps out of the change room in another dress—this one dark green and shimmery, hugging her curves in that way I know is scientifically engineered to cause jaw-dropping.

“What about this one?” she asks, spinning slowly.

I lean forward, inspecting. “Okay… now bend down.”

She blinks at me. “What?”

“You know, like, bend down. Pretend you dropped something.” I make a vague motion toward the ground.

Jess narrows her eyes but humours me, dipping down carefully as if reaching for a fallen earring.

I nod thoughtfully. “Alright. You can still breathe, nothing rips, and your ass doesn’t flash. That’s a win.”

She laughs, straightening up. “You are such a romantic, you know that?”

“I’m practical,” I say with a shrug. “You never know when you’ll need to sprint from a fire, bend to dodge, or, like… punch a guy under a table.”

Tara looks up with a smirk. “Because all of those things definitely happen on a first date.”

Jess grins. “I mean, not unless you’re dating a space pirate.”

And here’s where my brain—traitor that it is—misfires. “Hey, I’m just saying, you don’t want your tits to fall out mid-barrel roll.”

Jess blinks. Tara’s eyes go wide. I realize what I just said, and the heat rushes into my face so fast I swear I go up by five degrees.

“I meant—if she’s, like, rolling… like, metaphorically. Not in a—Oh my stars—shut up, Inara.”

Tara howls.

Jess bursts into giggles.

I bury my face in my hands and mutter, “I should not be allowed in public.”

Jess spins in front of the mirror again, then turns to me with a mischievous gleam in her eye. “So, does your boyfriend have better opinions about dresses than you do, or is he also completely useless?”

I picture Caleb standing here, eyes sliding over Jess in that dress—just a little too slow, a little too appreciative—before landing on me with that smug, knowing smirk he wears like a weapon.

Nope. Absolutely not. System error. Full crash. Reboot required. And possibly a mop for the blood.

I arch a brow, all sweetness and teeth. “If he looks at you for longer than two seconds, I’ll blind him. Accidentally, of course. Weapon maintenance mishap. Very tragic.”

Jess snorts, unbothered. “Noted.”

It only takes four hours of dress debates, shoe trials, belt detours—why the hell did we need a belt again?—and not a single pretzel to show for it. I am half-delirious, trudging behind Tara and Jess with the sluggish steps of someone who has seen things and survived.

Jess clutches her shopping bags like trophies. Tara is still chatting about the colour palette like we’re prepping for a diplomatic summit instead of a date night. I, meanwhile, am thinking about salted carbs and a cold drink.

As we near the exit, Tara nudges me with her elbow. “So, you think your boy’s going to have parked the plane in the lot again?”

My eyes flick instinctively to the sliding glass doors.

“It’s not out of the question with him,” I admit, sighing. “But let’s hope he brought the damn car this time. If I have to explain to mall security that the guy circling overhead is not an aerial threat, I’m gonna lose it.”

Jess giggles, adjusting her bag on her hip. “I mean… I wouldn’t mind seeing the plane,” she says, eyebrows arching in mock innocence. “I imagine it’s big.”

I halt mid-step and slowly turn to glare at her, catching the exact flavour of innuendo laced into her tone. “It’s not,” I reply, deadpan. “It’s small. Tiny. Unimpressive, really.”

A familiar voice chimes in from just beyond my peripheral vision, casual and laced with way too much amusement. “Are we talking about my aircraft or somethin’ else entirely?”

I freeze. Jess lets out a dramatic gasp, her face lighting up with delight. Tara immediately starts laughing. I don’t even need to look—I know that smug bastard is smirking behind me, arms crossed, pleased as hell with himself.

Slowly, I turn my head. Sure enough, Caleb’s leaning against the car—yes, thank the stars, an actual car—with that cocky tilt to his mouth, violet eyes dancing.

I clear my throat, doing my best to pretend I am not absolutely about to combust. “Obviously, we were talking about your piloting credentials.”

“Were you now?”

“Yup,” I say, nodding a little too fast. “Very small license. Barely qualified.”

He lifts a brow. “Mm. I’ll have to prove you wrong later then.”

I wrap up my goodbyes with Jess and Tara quickly, mostly to save myself from the teasing I know is coming—and to prevent further damage to my already-fragile pride.

“Have fun tonight!” Jess singsongs with a wink that has danger written all over it.

“Text us if you need help recovering from… your tiny aircraft,” Tara adds, snorting like the traitor she is.

I shoot them both a withering look, but it only fuels their giggles. As if choreographed for maximum theatrical impact, Caleb steps around the front of the car and opens the passenger door for me like he’s some kind of interstellar prince.

Jess lets out a dramatic gasp. Tara clutches her chest like she’s just witnessed the climax of a romance holodrama.

“Oh my stars,” Jess breathes. “He’s a gentleman too?”

“You’re so lucky,” Tara sighs, fanning herself with a shopping bag like she’s seconds from fainting.

I mutter something incomprehensible, something between kill me now and please drive away quickly, and slide into the seat without making eye contact with anyone. Caleb shuts the door gently behind me, and I hear the muffled squeals from my friends through the glass.

By the time he climbs into the driver’s seat and starts the engine, I’m staring out the window, trying to cool the burning in my face.

“You know,” he says casually as he pulls out of the lot, “I don’t mind you defending my honour. But if you’re going to lie, at least pick somethin’ believable.”

I drop my hands from my face, turning to glare at him. “There’s no reason for you to defend your honour to my friends,” I snap, sharper than I mean to. “They’re not the ones you need to impress.”

The words escape before I can catch them, sharp and misplaced—like a blade flung in the wrong direction. They hang in the air, trembling with regret, and I hate how raw they sound.

My chest pulls tight, frustration curling beneath my ribs with nowhere to go, but it’s not just this moment. It’s everything else—the thoughts I keep shoving into locked corners of my mind, too jagged to name, too dangerous to touch.

Caleb’s expression softens instantly. He reaches out, fingers barely grazing mine. “Hey, pip-squeak,” he murmurs, voice thick with concern. “You’ve been off. All week. What’s goin’ on?”

I bite my lip, eyes darting to the window. The city blurs, lights streaking like tears across glass. “It’s nothing.”

“Inara,” he coos again, low and steady. “You don’t have to carry whatever this is alone. We’ll figure it out. Together.”

His words land like a whisper in a locked room—too far away to reach, but loud enough to haunt me. I want to believe him. I want to let it crack open and pour out into his waiting hands.

I stare ahead in silence, letting the ache stretch inside me like a second skin. His hand rests just close enough that I could take it if I wanted to. But I don’t, because if I do, I might fall apart. 

If I fall apart now, I’m not sure I’ll ever find all the pieces again. And if I can’t do that, I’ll never be strong enough to save him.

So, moving my stuff into Caleb’s room is… a fiasco. It starts off sweet enough. He’s helping me fold clothes, and I’m pretending not to be embarrassed that I own an unreasonable amount of graphic T-shirts featuring everything from retro space travel posters to one that says I Need Space with a cartoon astronaut floating in the void.

He picks it up, holds it against his chest, and gives me a deadpan, “You could’ve just said so.”

“Give me that.” I snatch it back and shove it into the drawer before he can try it on and ruin it forever by somehow looking better in it than I do.

Half of the closet has already been cleared for me, and I go to hang up my clothes. Which is fine until a bra falls out of the pile and lands—hook side up—on his head.

He freezes. I freeze. We stare at each other. Then, with the utmost solemnity, he simpers, “Is this a gift? It’s a nice colour. Very ‘galactic maiden on the brink of battle.’”

“Stop talking,” I grumble.

But, by far the worst is when I try to casually tuck a small box of my… let’s call them, adult-ish items into the nightstand.

“What’s in the box?”

Caleb’s voice is light, amused, too curious for anyone’s good. He nods toward the little box I’m very obviously cradling behind my back like it’s the last remnants of a lost civilization.

“Nothing! There’s—there’s nothing to see here. Regular human things.”

His brows lift with that maddening smirk I’ve come to both love and fear. “Regular human things, you say?”

“Yep.” I force a smile that’s tight with panic. “Super boring. In fact, you’d be asleep before you even opened the lid.”

He takes a measured step closer. “You’re a terrible liar, pip-squeak.”

“I’m not lying! There’s no reason to investigate any further.” I sidestep, bump into the bed, nearly trip, and end up doing what can only be described as a slow-motion pirouette of doom to keep the box from tumbling out of my hands. “It’s just… supplies. Emergency preparedness. Safety tools.”

“For the apocalypse?”

“Sure,” I nod. “Of the personal variety.”

He cocks his head, clearly enjoying every second of this. “What kind of personal apocalypse are we talkin’ about, exactly?”

“I said nothing!”

He’s laughing with full-blown delight sparking in his eyes. “C’mon,” he coaxes. “Let me see.”

“Caleb, I swear to the stars—”

Too late. He reaches for the box playfully, and I jerk it back with a bit too much enthusiasm. The lid pops open.

And then—

Bzzzzzzzzzzt.

A loud, unmistakable whirring fills the room as something pink and deeply incriminating rolls out and makes a break for it like it’s late for a meeting.

Caleb blinks. “Is that—”

“I DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT IS,” I shout, bending hastily to pick it up.

Bad idea. Another item drops out and rattles against the floor. Then another. It’s a full-on jailbreak now, and I want to scream.

“This is my villain origin story. This is how I become the stuff of cautionary tales.” I attest, covering my face as Caleb calmly crouches to collect the rogue devices.

He picks up the pink one, turns it over in his hand thoughtfully, and purrs with unbearable calm, “Expanding the arsenal, are we?”

I might actually never recover. 

Capturing the vibrating pink offender from his hand—along with the rest of its rebellious little companions, I stuff them unceremoniously back into the box like I’m personally banishing them to hell. The lid barely closes before I shove it into the bottom drawer of my nightstand and slam it shut with enough force to rattle the lamp.

He gives me that wicked little smirk and glances at the nightstand where my dignity is now sealed and buried. “You know, with a few adjustments, I could probably get your little friends to vibrate with more vigour. Give them a proper power source. Maybe slap on some jet propulsion—”

I punch him in the arm. Hard. Not playfully. Not softly. My knuckles thud against his perfectly sculpted bicep with satisfying force.

He doubles over laughing. “Ow,” he wheezes. “Okay, okay, I deserved that.”

“You’re the worst!” I snap, but I’m already laughing, too—even if my face is still on fire. “Do you ever stop talking?”

“Not when I’m this entertained,” he grins, straightening. “Seriously, though. That pink one? We could be lookin’ at Mach 1 if I reroute—”

“Caleb!”

He laughs even harder, and I flop backwards on the bed in defeat, covering my face with both hands. Maybe if I lie here long enough, the floor will open up and swallow me whole. Or at least knock me unconscious long enough to forget the phrase “jet propulsion” being used in this context.

He crawls onto the bed, and his fingers brush my hips as he moves over me. His lips press a kiss just below my navel, then higher, and again, each one warmer than the last. My breath hitches as he continues upward, lazy kisses trailing over my ribs, the middle of my chest, my collarbone.

When he reaches my face, he peppers me with quick, silly little kisses—one on my chin, one on the tip of my nose, my forehead, and cheeks. I squirm under him, laughing despite the furnace of embarrassment still burning in my chest.

“Caleb!” I half-hiss, half-giggle. “Stop—I’m trying to drop dead of fatal humiliation over here!”

He leans back just enough to look at me, his weight settling into his forearms on either side of me. “You know I’m not gonna let you die. Especially not when you’re bein’ this adorable.”

My face scrunches, but his eyes soften, and so does my heart.

“You really think I’d ever make fun of you for that?” He asks, brushing a knuckle down the side of my jaw. “Never. I treasure every weird, awkward, brilliant part of you,” he whispers. “Even the part that stores secret vibrating robots in a box.”

“Stop mentioning them!”

He laughs into my neck, but his arms tighten around me, and I can feel the truth of it in the way he holds me—like I’m precious, even in all my deeply mortifying glory.

I watch Caleb pace back and forth on the terrace, one hand rubbing his forehead, the other gesturing furiously as he speaks to whoever’s on the other end of the call.

It was the Fleet. I knew it the moment he looked down at his phone during dinner, muttered a quiet apology, and stepped outside. 

I turn my attention back to the half-eaten dinner plate, poking at it with my fork like that’ll somehow make time move faster. When he finally returns, his expression is carefully neutral, but it’s too polished.

“Everything okay?” I ask, standing from the table.

“Yes,” he intones level and clipped. “Everything’s fine. There are some reports I have to review.”

My brows lift slightly, but I nod. “Okay.”

“I’ll be in the office if you need me.” 

He finally looks at me then, but the warmth he usually carries is hidden beneath eyes the colour of bruised violets under glass, shot through with cracks like frozen lightning. They are gorgeous in the way winter is gorgeous and deadly in the same breath.

He nods once and strides away without another word, disappearing into the dim hallway. The soft click of the office door latching shut follows a few seconds later. 

Just like that, I’m alone with a table full of food and a pit growing steadily in my stomach.

I clean up the kitchen, rinsing plates and stacking them into the dishwasher. As I rinse the last glass and set it in the rack, I catch my reflection in the window above the sink. 

My face looks tired—drawn in a way that has nothing to do with physical exhaustion. I dry my hands and lean against the counter, listening to the quiet hum of the dishwasher and, somewhere down the hall, the faint sound of Caleb’s fingers tapping on his keyboard.

I know him better than he sometimes knows himself. I recall what his laugh used to sound like—light, unrestrained, almost boyish. I remember how his eyes used to shine after a flight, adrenaline and sunlight caught in the violet of his irises. How his friends used to call him by name, not rank.

He was happy then.

Being a fighter pilot was his dream. The kind of dream you don’t just outgrow. The kind you live for. And now? Now he wears that title—colonel—like it weighs twice as much as it should.

He doesn’t laugh the same anymore. Not unless I pry it out of him with terrible jokes or whispered insults meant to make him roll his eyes. Even then, it’s tired around the edges.

Sometimes, when I look at him, I still see the same face—the strong jaw, the steady eyes that once made me feel like the world couldn’t shake beneath my feet. But now, there’s something else behind them. A quiet erosion. Like he’s been weathered by politics, bureaucracy, and battles he was never meant to fight.

I don’t know how to help him. That’s the part that hurts the most.

I press my hand to my chest, trying to rub away the ache that’s settled there, but it doesn’t budge. Just pulses in rhythm with the quiet guilt and helplessness building in my throat.

I curl up in bed with a book, one of my usual comforts when the world feels a little too loud. Tonight, the words seem to slide off the page like water. I read the same paragraph four times and still have no idea what it says. 

My thoughts are too tangled, and I’m done waiting around for pieces to fall into my lap. I set the book down, grab my phone, and shoot off a text to Tara.

Inara: Hey. Random question. Does the DAA have to report missing pilots?

Tara: Not to the public. They’re required to keep meticulous incident logs. Aircraft malfunctions, disappearances, recovery attempts—all of it.

Inara: Are those records public?

Tara: Nah. Most of it’s classified or locked behind DAA security clearance. Even family members usually get redacted versions.

Inara: Shit. Okay. Thanks! 

Tara: I might be able to help tho. Depends on what you’re digging for. Want to come over to my place Monday after work?

My fingers hover over the screen for a second before I type back.

Inara: Yes. Please. I owe you.

Tara: You always do. ;)

I delete the conversation before tossing the phone on the nightstand and try to focus on my book again. Eventually, the ache behind my eyes wins, and I drift off, wrapped in a too-thin blanket and thoughts too heavy to sleep through.

Thunder wakes me. A vicious crack splits the sky, rattling the windows, and my eyes snap open. The room is briefly flooded in an eerie wan glow as lightning streaks, illuminating the walls in stark, jagged shadows.

Living in Skyhaven means you’re closer to the stars, the clouds… and the storms. When they come, they do not tiptoe in on clouds—they tear the sky asunder. Lightning doesn’t flash; it detonates, slicing the heavens like a mirror shattering under divine pressure.

It’s the kind of spectacle that makes you wonder if the sky is grieving or simply tired of holding itself together.

I’ve never liked storms. There’s a kind of helplessness to thunder—how it booms and bellows and shakes everything inside you without permission.

Another thunderclap causes me to flinch. The sound punches straight through my ribs.

And suddenly—I am not in my bed. There’s screaming in my ears. A boy across the glass—his eyes empty, body twitching.

Caleb.

Machines whirring. Metal flying. A surge of racing up my spine, blooming like fire behind my eyes. There is panic. Cold. Pain.

And then—

The bedroom again. The shadowed ceiling. Rain tap-tap-taps at the windows. My chest heaves. My shirt sticks to my skin with sweat I don’t remember sweating. My fingers ache like they’ve just punched something that did not give way.

I blink hard, trying to force the images back into the dark corners they crawled out of.

What the hell was that? It wasn’t a dream. It felt like a thread from another life, tugged loose in the dark. Woven into marrow, pressed beneath years of silence, a story half-erased and rewritten too many times.

I rub my hands against my arms, trying to temper the shake in them. The storm hasn’t passed. It rolls on, louder than before, like it’s trying to dig more out of me.

The clock on my nightstand glows in quiet judgment. 

2:57 a.m.

When I reach across the bed, searching for Caleb, the space beside me is empty. 

My legs still tremble when I throw the blankets off and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I pad down the corridor to Caleb’s office and stop in front of the door, knuckles grazing the surface in a soft knock.

No answer. I hesitate for half a second, then push the door open and step inside.

The light from the hologram spills in ripples across the room, casting violet and indigo silhouettes on the walls. Data strings drift mid-air, flickering code and orbital paths looping endlessly.

At the desk, Caleb is slumped forward, arms folded on the desk like he passed out mid-thought. His hair is a mess, his brow furrowed even in sleep. A half-empty cup of coffee sits precariously close to his elbow, gone cold long ago.

He twitches, and a small, broken sound escapes his throat. “No… you can’t take her…”

His brows tighten further. Fingers curl. His breathing quickens.

“Don’t go… please—stop…” His voice is raw, hoarse, like he’s trying to scream through water.

“Caleb…” I gently brush his hair back from his forehead.

He looks younger like this—softer around the edges, even in his distress. Vulnerable in a way Caleb never lets himself be when he’s awake.

His eyes snap open. In a flash, his hand shoots up and catches mine. Trembling fingers wrap around my wrist like he’s afraid I’ll vanish.

“Let’s run away,” he breathes, the words ragged and uneven.

His eyes are wide and glassy, pupils too big. He’s still caught in the liminal half-dream state where reality hasn’t quite settled. His voice carries a kind of desperation I’ve rarely heard.

Caleb’s never run from anything in his life. Yet, it doesn’t feel like the first time he’s said those words.

“Hey…” I whisper, my voice catching in my throat.

I free my hand gently from his grip and cup his face instead. His skin is warm under my palm. My thumb brushes across his cheek, a kind of tether to keep him grounded. 

His lashes flutter. Confusion knits briefly between his brows before his eyes clear and land on me. He blinks, sluggish and bleary.

“Inara…” Sleep clings to the edges of his voice. He exhales unevenly, like he’s still climbing out of the pit he was just in.

“I—sorry,” he mutters, sitting up a bit. “I didn’t mean to—are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I reassure, my voice soft as I tug him gently. “Come to bed.”

His attention drifts to the holographic display still hovering lazily in the air, casting a dim glow across his features. Before he can say anything, thunder cracks so loudly the walls shudder.

Caleb is up in an instant, drawing me into him. I don’t have time to brace for the storm before one of my ears is pressed against his chest. His hand gently covers the other.

“Osiris, close the shutters,” he commands smoothly. 

I hear the hum of the house’s AI as the shutters roll down. The sound of the storm muffles instantly.

“Better?” He murmurs, his lips brushing against the top of my head.

I nod, not trusting my voice just yet. His arms cocoon me, and I let him lead me to the bed. He pulls me close, pressing my back to his chest. The storm continues to rage outside, but inside, it’s just the two of us, tangled in the sheets.

I wake up to the sound of rain tapping against the shutters. With them still down, the room is shrouded in a night-like darkness, the kind that makes it feel like the world outside has disappeared. 

The only light in the room is from a crack where the bathroom door is slightly ajar, and the soft glow from the shower stream spills across the floor.

For a moment, I think about rolling back into the warmth of the bed and just going back to sleep. But then I notice the faintest sound coming from the bathroom—the rush of water, Caleb in the shower. 

My mind teases me with the idea of just peeking in. I try to shake it off. I mean, this is kind of creepy, right? It lodges itself in my brain, like the kind of foolish conceptualization you can’t unthink. 

It’s like being a kid again, peeking through a crack in the door, wondering what everyone’s hiding from you.

The steam curls around the bathroom door like some kind of temptation I can’t resist as I slip out of bed. 

This is such a stupid idea, but you know that kind of stupid that’s also kind of fun, like eating an entire pizza in one sitting even though you know you’ll regret it?

My feet move before I can even talk myself out of it, and honestly, I’m already halfway to the door when I realize I’m in way too deep.

What the hell am I doing?

My mind leaps and does a glorious cannonball straight into the gutter. It’s like a reflex at this point. I envision the water running down his chest, droplets clinging to his skin in a way that’s entirely too distracting for my own good. Is he enjoying it? Is he flexing like some kind of damn soap commercial model?

Okay, I’m literally losing my mind. I have to stop.

I attempt to focus on the mundane, but it’s really hard when my brain decides to take a violent left turn and starts picturing all kinds of highly inappropriate scenarios. Could he be touching himself? What do I do if he is? Do I leave? Watch? 

… Offer to lend a hand?

My hand’s on the door handle before I can even process it. I crack the door open just a little so I can peer around the edge.

Of course, the mirror’s completely fogged up, leaving nothing but a blurry haze. I stare at it for a second, hoping that maybe the steam will clear up and I’ll get to see some miraculous, totally unintentional reveal. But nope. I just see a vague outline of Caleb moving around, looking like… well, like someone in a shower.

It’s… vexing, really. All this build-up for nothing. I can’t even tell if he’s doing anything interesting in there. I stand there, just staring at the mirror like some kind of amateur peeping Tom.

Screw it. I’m going to get into the shower with him. I quickly undress, trying to think of ways to make this whole thing not weird. 

Maybe I can sneak up behind him, wrap my arms around his waist, and just surprise him—a sexy, playful surprise. 

Yeah, that’s the vibe. The steamy, sensual vibe.

With newfound determination, I tiptoe inside, but then, of course, the bathmat decides it’s going to be my new worst enemy, slipping out from under my foot like a little jerk. I trip forward, arms flailing, and I have to catch myself on the glass wall of the shower to avoid doing a very elegant face-plant onto the tile. 

I swear I feel my heart sprint out of my chest as Caleb jumps, spinning around so quickly I feel the air shift with the force of it.

“Shit!” I squeak, and for some reason, I instinctively move to cover my naked form.

We just stand there for an awkward moment, staring at each other. Caleb’s wide-eyed and still dripping wet, soap suds clinging to his hair.

He breaks into laughter, shaking his head. Before I even know what’s happening, he opens the shower door and tugs me in with him.

“God, you’re ridiculous,” he giggles, boyish and silvery, pressing a kiss to my forehead.

“Your bathmat tried to kill me,” I snort, my lips curling into a small smirk.

He looks down at the bathmat with mock suspicion, then raises an eyebrow at me. “Oh? I guess that explains your dramatic entrance.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help laughing. “Next time, I’ll bring a helmet.”

“I’ll make sure to file a safety report on that bathmat,” he chuckles, but still uses that authoritative timbre.

Before I can think too much about it, he’s lathering up the soap in his hands, and without a second thought, he begins to gently rub it over my shoulders. The feel of his hands on my skin sends a jolt of excitement skittering through my veins.

Gently, he pulls me closer until our bodies are pressed together. He tilts my chin up with his fingers, his eyes locking with mine. My lips part slightly, and his mouth is on mine.

His lips are gentle at first, then urgent, pulling at mine with a hunger I can’t deny. The water runs over us, the steam swirling around us like a veil, but we’re lost in each other. His touch is explorative, like a quiet river carving through a canyon, discovering every hidden curve and delicate hollow.

Caleb’s mouth moves from my lips to my jaw, trailing kisses down my neck as his hands cup my breasts, his thumbs brushing over my nipples. His teeth trace my collarbone, each brush leaving a lingering, molten warmth that melts down my spine.

One of his hands slides down my stomach, his fingers dipping between my thighs, finding my clit. 

He rubs steady, deliberate circles, and my hips buck against his hand. I muffle my repeated curses against his shoulder, spreading my legs further.

It feels like my body no longer belongs to me. He’s rewritten the laws of gravity, and I’m irrecoverably caught in his orbit. There’s only sensation—pure, overwhelming, dizzying bliss that coils low and spreads like light through a prism.

"Fuck, angel," he groans, the gravel in his voice burns with a heat that makes each word feel like a caress, urgent and aching. "I need to taste you."

Before I can respond, he’s dropping to his knees, the water sluicing over his broad shoulders. He lifts one of my legs over his shoulder, kissing a torturous path up my thigh until he reaches my aching core.

A shuddering moan escapes my lips as his mouth finally makes contact. His tongue parts my folds, dragging up the length of my slit in one long, slow lick.

I have never felt anything like it. The hot slide against my bud strikes like a surging wave of sensation; the edges of my vision blur into a constellation of sparking bliss.

My head falls back against the tile with a soft thud. I think I might fucking faint. My knees shudder, and I press my back further into the wall to keep myself upright. I want to drown in him, like the way waves surrender to the shore. Again. And again. And again.

Caleb laps at me with the reverence of a dying man granted one final taste of heaven. His fingers part my pussy, holding me open for his hungry mouth as he fucks me with his tongue.

"Oh god, Caleb, yes," I whimper, my fingers tangling in his wet hair, holding him against me.

The hot coil of pleasure builds rapidly, my hips rocking shamelessly against his face. He groans against my cunt, the vibrations sending shockwaves rippling outward, like the first tremor of an earthquake shuddering through my bones.

I'm panting now, my thighs trembling, my nipples aching as the warm water cascades over my sensitized skin.

"You taste so fucking good.” Caleb’s heavily lidded eyes gaze up at me, all dawn fire and endless night playing together infinitely in his irises. He takes my labia between his mouth, tugging gently and sucking. "I could eat this sweet pussy all day.”

His tongue thrusts into me again, lapping at my entrance before swirling around my engorged pearl. The pressure builds, my hips grinding against his face as I chase the mounting euphoric high.

"Don't stop, fuck, right there.” I mewl an octave too high and breathy.

He pulls back to suck my clit between his lips, the point of his tongue flicking rapidly over the bundled nerves. Two thick fingers press into me, curling to rub against that perfect spot inside me.

The pleasure is an exquisite agony that has me teetering on a knife's edge. Every movement winds tighter, coils heat at the base of my spine. I swear he knows exactly how to unravel me—slow, purposeful, like he’s savouring every breathless sound I make.

“Cum for me, angel," he instructs roughly, almost savagely, drenched in the kind of hunger that pulls at every syllable.

A choked cry tears from my throat as my orgasm stampedes over me, my body convulsing with the force of it. I drown in the crescendo, each swell of sensation more exquisite than the last. My thighs clamp around his head as I shatter apart, colours bursting behind my eyelids like fireworks.

Caleb gentles his touch, lapping at my folds, cleaning up every last drop of my release before pressing a tender kiss to my throbbing bud. He slides his fingers out of me, and I whimper at the loss, feeling empty and aching for more.

"You're so beautiful when you cum," he rasps, rising to his feet.

His cock juts out proudly, thick and hard and flushed an angry red at the tip. I reach for him, desperate to feel his velvety heat in my hand, but he captures my wrist, pinning it above my head as he steps in close.

"Wrap your legs around me."

In one smooth motion, he lifts me up, his hands gripping my ass as he pins me against the cool tile. I do as he says, locking my ankles at the small of his back.

The broad head of his cock notches at my entrance, and with a gentle rock of his hips, he's pushing inside, stretching me open, filling me completely. I cry out at the exquisite burn, my nails digging into his shoulders, raking down his back. 

He stills, letting me adjust to the incredible fullness of him. Then he begins to move, pulling out almost entirely before slamming back in, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing obscenely in the steamy confines of the shower.

The slick slide of his thick length against my inner walls is maddening, each drag of his cock hitting that perfect spot that has me shaking and gasping his name like a prayer. His pubic bone grinds deliciously against my clit with every thrust, the dual stimulation rocketing me towards another peak.

"Fuck, you take my cock so well," he praises, driving into me again and again, spearing me on his girth. "Your sweet little cunt is gripping me so tight."

We move in sync, desperate and wild, like we’re trying to climb inside each other—like skin isn’t enough of a barrier anymore, like we were never meant to be separate in the first place.

I lose myself, again and again, each time more willingly than the last. As if some ancient part of me always knew this was where I was meant to break—right here, in his hands, under his mouth, within his light and his darkness in equal measure.

Caleb's fingers dig into the globes of my ass as he pounds into me. His fingers dig into my hips, and I want him to leave marks. I want to wear the shape of his desire on my skin, want to feel it ache later and remember exactly how he made me fall apart.

"Touch yourself," Caleb cajoles.

I obey without hesitation, reaching between us to rub my clit in tight, frantic circles, my hips rolling to meet his every thrust.

"That's it, baby," Caleb groans, his voice a guttural rasp, eyes moored to where my fingers dance, and he sheathes himself into my wet heat. ”Rub that pretty little clit for me."

His words send a shiver down my spine, igniting a fire in my veins that threatens to consume me entirely. I'm so close, teetering on the edge of oblivion, my inner walls fluttering around his pistoning length.

"Caleb," I whimper, my voice high and urgent. "I'm so close. Please, don't stop."

"Never," he vows fiercely, punctuating the word with a particularly deep thrust that has reality fracturing. "I'll never stop fucking this perfect cunt.”

With a final twist of my fingers, I'm flying apart. My orgasm hits like a celestial collapse—black holes forming in my chest, stars going supernova in my bones. 

I scream his name as I come undone—a prayer, a plea, a promise unravelling me with every syllable. My walls clamp down around his cock like a velvet vice.

"Fuck, I can feel you coming,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “Do you want me to fill this tight little pussy up with my cum?”

I can only nod frantically, my brain unable to form anything coherent.

“Beg me for it, Inara,” he directs, fingers digging into my ass cheeks. “Beg me to fill you until you’re dripping with my cum.”

I'm so far gone, lost in the haze of pleasure, that my mouth moves of its own accord. "Please, Caleb," I beg shamelessly, my voice cracked and raw. “I want you to fill me until I can’t take any more.”

"Shit," he curses, his hips stuttering as my filthy pleas push him closer to the edge, losing their rhythm. ”I'm gonna cum," he warns, his voice strained.

I clench around him deliberately, urging him to let go. He surges into me one final time before stilling, buried to the hilt as rope after hot rope of his seed paints my inner walls.

I moan at the sensation, my oversensitive pussy fluttering around him, wringing out every last drop. It's filthy and carnal and so utterly perfect that tears prick at the corners of my eyes.

We stay like that for a long moment, tangled up in each other as we try to catch our breath, the shower beating down on us in a steady rhythm.

His softening cock slips from my core, our combined fluids trickling down my trembling thighs. He gently lowers my boneless body to the shower floor, my legs wobbling like a newborn fawn's as I struggle to find my footing.

He cups my face, tilting my chin up to meet his reverent gaze. "I could get used to this," he murmurs, his thumb caressing my cheekbone.

I blush under the intensity of his praise, my heart swelling with an emotion I'm not quite ready to name. "Me too," I admit softly, leaning into his touch. "That was..."

"Earth-shattering? Life-altering? The best sex of your life?" he supplies with a cocky grin, his eyes glinting.

I roll my eyes, swatting at his chest playfully. "Don't let it go to your head, mister. We've still got a lot of exploring to do."

His smile turns heated, his gaze raking over my naked form with unabashed hunger. "Oh, I plan on explorin’ every inch of this gorgeous body.”

Caleb reaches for the body wash, squirting a generous amount into his palm before beginning to lather up my skin. His touch is reverent as he washes me, his hands gliding over every curve and plane. He takes his time, massaging the suds into my skin, worshipping me with his fingers.

When he's finished, I return the favour, my hands roaming over the hard planes of his chest and the rippling muscles of his abdomen. We rinse off under the cooling spray, trading lazy kisses.

Under that comfort, there is an inexplicable ache that sits heavy in my chest, making my breath catch. A part of me can’t shake the nagging sense that we’re running out of time, as though we’re caught in a loop where the ending is already written.

It’s almost like there’s a thread pulling at me, a tug at the edges of my thoughts, a quiet voice whispering that everything we’re building, everything we’re feeling, is just a countdown to something inevitable.

The air hums with chatter and laughter, the dim lighting giving the bar a cozy, almost intimate atmosphere—perfect for drinking with coworkers and embarrassing yourself in front of them. Not that I’ve done that yet, but give it time.

I should be basking in the victory of today’s team-building exercise, but instead, my brain is running laps around one singular issue: being Caleb’s girlfriend is a goddamn nightmare.

Not because of Caleb himself. Oh no, he’s perfect—annoyingly so. I am the problem. I have become hyper-aware of everything I do, as if I’m on some kind of world stage where every movement, word, and breath is being judged.

Take bending down, for example. Used to be simple. Drop something? Pick it up. That’s it.

Now? Now it’s a performance. My brain has decided that if I so much as think about bending down, it must be done with the grace of a prima ballerina and the allure of a femme fatale in an action movie.

Step one: Stick my ass out, but not too much, or I’ll look like I’m trying too hard.

Step two: Keep my back straight, otherwise my stomach will bunch in that weird, unflattering way.

Step three: Make it look effortless. Casual. Sexy but not intentionally sexy.

Spoiler alert: I fail every time.

That’s just one example. Don’t even get me started on sitting. Why is sitting suddenly so complicated? I can’t just flop into a chair like a normal person anymore. Oh no. I have to do a calculated sit. One that looks cool and effortless but also dainty? Is that a thing? Am I supposed to cross my legs? What if I look stiff? Should I lean back? But what if that looks arrogant?

“Oi! Inara!”

A heavy arm slams around my shoulders, nearly knocking me off my barstool. I let out a strangled yelp and almost spill my drink.

“Relax!” Riko, one of my rowdier teammates, laughs as he shakes me. “You look like you’re planning a murder over here!”

“I’m fine.” I force a smile. “Great even.”

“She’s lying,” Tara singsongs from across the table, sipping her drink.

“Terrible at it, too,” Kenji adds, clinking his beer against Riko’s. “C’mon, what’s up? You’ve been weird all night.”

Weird? Me? No. I am a vision of human normalcy. I open my mouth to prove it when the bartender passes by. 

I have zero reason to stop him, but my brain, desperate to prove how socially adept I am, blurts out, “Excuse me, sir, I am full!”

A silence blankets the table. The bartender stares. My teammates stare. I stare.

“…What?” Tara asks.

“I—I meant—I don’t need anything. I’m good. I—” I gesture vaguely at my drink. “Full.”

The bartender slowly nods and backs away like he’s escaping a crime scene. I want to die. Right here. Right now. Where is a good old-fashioned Wanderer attack when you need it? 

Kenji snorts into his beer. “Damn, she’s struggling.”

Tara pats my back, the only one nice enough to at least pretend she isn’t laughing at me. “Aw, it’s okay. You’ll bounce back.”

I won’t, but I appreciate the sentiment. I sit back up, determined to salvage what’s left of my dignity. Which is precisely when I make accidental eye contact with a man I don’t know across the bar.

I immediately overthink the eye contact. Was it too long? Did I just stare at him? Oh stars, am I being weird again? Do I nod? Wave? Ignore it? Do I blink??

Panic sets in at light speed, and my brain, in all its infinite wisdom, decides the correct response is to salute.

I salute this man.

He looks utterly bewildered, and my teammates lose their shit. Kenji nearly falls out of his chair laughing. Riko chokes on his drink. Tara is wheezing.

“Did you just—” Riko is gasping for breath. “Did you just salute that guy?”

I slam my hands onto the table. “I DON’T KNOW HOW TO EXIST ANYMORE, OKAY?!”

That only makes them laugh harder. I let my forehead drop back onto the table. The plan is simple: drink so I can’t talk, because every time I open my mouth tonight, something deeply humiliating spills out. If I keep my glass full and my mouth occupied, I cannot salute random strangers, nor can I declare to the bartender that I am full.

Solid plan. Foolproof.

Except for the part where I choke on my spit the second Kenji says, “So, Inara, when’s the last time you went on a date?”

I immediately inhale wrong and burst into a fit of coughing. My drink sloshes dangerously close to spilling, and I slap my chest, trying to recover.

Tara reaches over to pat my back. “Whoa, you okay? You good?”

I nod frantically, eyes watering.

Kenji, for his part, just grins, unfazed by my near-death experience. “Hit a nerve, did I?”

I finally manage to swallow properly and clear my throat. “What? No. Of course not. I just… wasn’t expecting the question.”

“Right.”

“I date,” I conclude crisply and way too defensively.

Kenji snorts. “Oh yeah? When?”

Tara squints at me. “Name one.”

My brain upends. “Uh. There was that guy—uh—Elias!”

“Elias dumped you in under ten minutes because you beat him in a shooting contest.”

“First of all, I obliterated him, and second, that still counts.”

“Does it?” Riko smirks.

I groan, dragging my hands down my face. “Why does this even matter?”

“Because you act like dating is some foreign concept,” Kenji teases.

Tara leans in, eyes glimmering. “Unless… you’re hiding someone.”

Shit. I keep my face neutral. “That is preposterous.”

Kenji points at me. “Suspicious.”

Riko nods. “Very sus.”

Tara gasps dramatically. “Wait—do you have a secret lover?”

“No,” I proclaim quickly, which is the exact opposite of the right response, because now they are all leaning in like I’ve just revealed the juiciest piece of gossip in the entire galaxy.

“You so do!” Tara practically squeals. “Oh my god, who is it?”

“Nobody!” I protest. “There is no secret lover!”

“That is exactly what someone with a secret lover would say,” Kenji points out.

I groan. “You guys are insufferable.”

Riko grins. “You love us.”

“Debatable.”

Tara giggles, clinking her glass against mine. “Well, whenever you’re ready to spill, just know we’ll be here. Until then—drink up!”

Under the table, I slide my phone out with the stealth of a trained assassin. My fingers move fast.

Inara: S.O.S. Save me!

It takes Caleb all of ten seconds to reply.

Caleb: What happened? Are you okay?? Wanderer trouble? Where are you?

Inara: Worse. TEAM BUILDING.

Caleb: …Worse than a Wanderer??? Bold take.

Inara: You weren’t there when Kenji started interrogating me about my love life.

Caleb: Oof. Brutal. Did you choke on your drink again?

Inara: NO… Maybe. I panicked!!

Caleb: Pip-squeak, you’ve literally stared down voidspawn without blinking, but a round of small talk and you’re ready to eject into space?

Inara: Small talk is terrifying. It’s all traps.

Caleb: I should’ve prepped you better. This was a tactical oversight. I accept full responsibility.

Inara: Send help. Drop a comms error and fake an emergency? Pretend Skyhaven’s on fire?

Caleb: You want me to fake burn down my house so you can ghost a bar night?

Inara: It’s not “ghosting” if I’m actively being hunted for information. This is a stealth mission.

Caleb: In that case… Hold strong, Agent Pip-Squeak. Reinforcements en route.

I stifle a laugh, biting my lip as I shove my phone away, just in time for Tara to lean across the table and ask, “Who are you texting, huh?”

I lift my drink. “My dignity. I think it blocked me.”

Okay. I just have to hold out long enough for Caleb to swoop in and save me. Easy. Simple. I can do this. I’m a trained Hunter. I’ve faced horrors that could unravel the human mind. I can survive five more minutes of forced conversation and watered-down beer.

Yes. I’ve totally got this.

“Hey,” says a voice, smooth and just a little too cocky. 

I glance up—and instantly regret making eye contact. It’s the guy I saluted earlier like an absolute buffoon. I try to play it cool, sip my drink, and not recall how I smacked myself in the face with my glass three seconds after said salute.

He smiles. “Mind if I buy you a drink?”

I stare at him, eyes wide, probably looking like someone who just got caught mid-crime. My brain stalls, offering me no helpful dialogue options.

“Uh,” I manage, which is not a complete sentence but also not a yes, so… win?

He takes this as encouragement. “I noticed you earlier. At the range. You’ve got a good shot. Figured I’d come say hi.”

“Oh,” I say, gripping my glass with both hands like it’s going to anchor me to reality. “Thanks. I, uh… shoot things sometimes.”

“I’d love to hear more about that.” The guy leans a little closer. “So what do you do when you’re not, you know, making headshots look easy?”

I blink. “Uh. Stuff. Mostly.”

NAILED IT.

Just when I start calculating how many years of medical leave faking a fainting spell would get me, the door swings open.

And there he is.

Caleb, in all his stupidly gorgeous, heroically tall, annoyingly perfect glory. His flight jacket’s slung over one shoulder, his hair just messy enough to look effortless, and he’s scanning the room like a damn hawk looking for prey.

His eyes land on me—and the guy sitting far too close—and something subtle shifts in his posture. Not angry. Not obvious. Just enough tension in his shoulders to make a man with a functioning survival instinct hesitate.

He strolls over casually, but there’s a purpose to his steps. Like he’s not just walking—he’s claiming space.

Caleb stops just behind me, a hand resting lightly on the back of my chair. “Evenin’,” Caleb greets smoothly, voice friendly but just a touch too even. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

The guy blinks and straightens a bit. “Oh—no, not at all. I was just chatting with—uh…” He never got my name, so he just gestures awkwardly.

Caleb glances at me with the faintest smirk. “I see that.”

The guy clears his throat. “You a friend of hers?”

Caleb holds the man’s gaze for a beat too long, head tilted slightly, the kind of expression you’d wear when deciding whether or not to break someone’s kneecaps.

Then, he flashes a smile that’s all white teeth and charming menace. “Somethin’ like that.”

The guy laughs nervously and stands. “Well. I should, uh, get back to my friends.”

Caleb gives him a nod. “Nice talkin’ to you.”

The second the guy’s out of earshot, I turn to Caleb and hiss, “Something like that?! What does that even mean?”

“It means he’s gone, isn’t he?” Caleb rebuts innocently, pulling out a chair and plopping down beside me. “Mission accomplished. You’re welcome.”

“You scared him off with your face.”

“I scared him off with my presence,” he corrects, stealing my drink like he owns it. “Which is far more efficient and less messy than dragging him out by the collar like I was originally planning.”

“You know I’m going to spend the next seven hours replaying everything I said to that guy in my head, right?”

“Good,” he notes smugly. “That’s seven hours you won’t be flirtin’ with anyone else.”

I nearly spit my drink out. “Excuse me? That was not flirting. That was social distress.”

“Well,” he purrs with a wink, “you wear it well.”

I consider throwing my coaster at him. Turning to the group, I attempt to sound breezy—like Caleb showing up was totally planned and not the result of a desperate “S.O.S.” text fired off mid panic spiral.

“Hey guys,” I begin, voice already wobbling, “uh, this is—this is Caleb. He’s, um. He’s… with me.”

Caleb gives me a quick sidelong glance, then nods to the table. “Nice to meet you all.”

“Hey man,” Riko says first, ever the friendliest of the group, reaching across the table to shake his hand. “I’m Riko. This here’s Tara, Kenji, and Jessa.”

Tara waves sweetly, and the others nod or grin in welcome. They’re all totally unfazed. It’s infuriating how normal they make this look.

“So,” Riko starts, leaning in with interest, “what do you do, Caleb?”

Caleb shrugs like it’s nothing. “I’m with Farspace Fleet.”

“Oh?” Jessa arches a brow. “Like an engineer?”

“No,” he replies, smiling easy and relaxed. “I fly.”

Riko perks up. “No way. What Fleet?”

“All of ‘em.”

Riko blinks. “Wait—As in… you’re the colonel?”

“Last I checked.” Caleb grins.

From there, the two fall into an intense, rapid-fire conversation about jets, engine modifications, flight patterns, and who-knows-what else. I stop listening after Riko says “thrust vectoring” for the third time.

Which is when Tara leans closer and whispers in my ear. “So… is this the secret lover?”

Every muscle in my body stiffens like I’ve just been caught stealing military secrets. My face floods with heat, and before I can stop myself, I blurt out—

“Yes! This is my boyfriend!"

It comes out far too loud. The kind of loud that carries. Everything goes quiet for a second. Half my coworkers glance over, eyebrows raised.

Caleb, without missing a beat, chuckles softly. Then, louder than me—deliberately louder—he calls out:

“Damn right I am. She’s my girlfriend.”

The spotlight shifts off me instantly. A few people raise their glasses in half-hearted cheers. Someone whistles. Tara giggles into her drink. Meanwhile, I want to slide under the table and evaporate.

Caleb leans toward me, voice low and teasing. “You know, if you wanted to announce it like a town crier, I’d have worn a sash or somethin’.”

“Shut up,” I mutter, burying my face in my hands.

Secretly, I’m smiling.

The night winds down with laughter still echoing in my ears and a warmth in my chest that isn’t just from the drinks. The group trickles out one by one, calling out half-drunken goodbyes and promising to meet up again soon.

I’m walking beside Caleb, still riding the high of not dying from social embarrassment—though it was a close call—when a strange murmur rolls through the crowd ahead. There’s a weirdly large group gathering at the edge of the parking lot, phones out, flashes going off.

Kenji’s voice cuts through the buzz like a firecracker. “Holy shit! Someone parked their plane in the parking lot!”

Riko gasps like it’s Christmas morning. “No way,” he exclaims, already jogging ahead to gawk.

A cold, sinking dread crawls up my spine. No. No, no, no. I whirl around, eyes snapping to Caleb—who is, of course, wearing the most self-satisfied, proud-of-himself smirk I’ve ever seen.

“Caleb.” I grab his arm and yank him down to my level, whispering through clenched teeth, “You landed the fucking plane here?”

He blinks innocently. “What? You said, ‘S.O.S.’ There was no time to stop at the airfield to get the car.”

My jaw drops. I can’t even form a sentence. I just make a strangled noise that might be a groan—or a laugh. Honestly, it’s probably both.

Behind us, Riko shouts, “This is the coolest thing I’ve ever seen!”

Tara, standing beside me now, frowns as she unlocks her phone. “Okay, I’m calling a ride service. Do you and Caleb need a—?”

I just point. At the plane. Tara follows my hand.

Her eyes widen, and she presses her lips together, doing her best not to burst out laughing. “Oh, right. That makes… sense.”

“It really doesn’t,” I mutter.

Caleb offers her a charming wave, and then, as if this is just a totally normal Tuesday night, he throws an arm around my shoulders and guides me toward the plane. “Shall we, m’lady?”

I sigh, pressing my hands to my burning cheeks as we walk through the murmuring crowd. 

This man is going to be the death of me.

And, annoyingly, I think I kind of love it.

Once we’re back in the relative safety of Caleb’s hidden sanctuary, I finally let myself breathe. Well… try to breathe. What if I’m breathing too loud? Or too shallow? Or like some sort of Victorian ghost with tuberculosis? Do I sound sickly? Unhinged? Suspiciously winded?

I clamp my mouth shut for a moment just in case and make my way into the living room.

“So? What did you do to make that guy come over, or did he just get enthralled by your beauty?”

I let out a dramatic groan and flop face-first into the couch before rolling onto my back, grabbing the nearest pillow, and hugging it to my chest. “I… okay. We made eye contact, right? And you know how I get—like there’s this pressure to do something with my face? Acknowledge them? I don’t know. So instead of just looking away like a normal person…”

I pause for effect.

“I saluted him.”

There is silence. Deafening, suspended silence, then Caleb absolutely loses it. He bends over, arms braced on his knees, as he laughs like he’s just heard the greatest joke in human history. 

It’s deep and full-bodied, the kind of laugh that has him gasping for air between each wheeze. “You saluted him?”

“It’s not funny, Caleb!” I protest, my face already burning as I whip the pillow at his stupidly beautiful face. “I panicked!”

“Clearly!” Caleb wheezes, grinning from ear to ear. “God, I love your brain. It’s like a ten-car pile-up of anxiety and good intentions.”

I make an offended noise, grabbing another pillow to shield myself from further embarrassment. “I was trying to be polite!”

He finally sits up straighter, still chuckling, and reaches over to gently pull the pillow away from my face. His eyes are warm and soft around the edges, like I’m the most endearing thing he’s ever seen.

“I know, angel,” he coos. “And it is adorable.”

My cheeks heat again, but this time it’s for a completely different reason. I go to my bedroom to change into something more comfortable that smells less like gunpowder and humiliation. 

Caleb follows me into my room. "Are you going to move your clothes into my room, or do you want to move my room into this room since you like the view better?"

My hands freeze mid-motion, grasping the hem of my shirt like I’ve forgotten how clothing works. My heart does an acrobatic flip in my chest—one of those unnecessary, show-offy ones gymnasts do when they’ve already won the competition.

“You want me to put my stuff in your room?” I repeat, just to make sure I actually heard him correctly and that my brain isn’t filling in details it wants to hear.

“Well, yeah. Why not?”

I hear the smirk in his voice before I feel him—his chest pressing into my back, his arms looping around my waist like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He dips his head, lips grazing my ear as he murmurs, “You sleep with me every night you stay over anyway.”

His breath is warm, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. He says it so casually. Like it’s not a huge deal. Like this isn’t some massive, relationship-levelling milestone that should be accompanied by fireworks and dramatic orchestral music.

Meanwhile, my brain is staging an entire coup. Moving my stuff into his room? Is that…? Does that mean…?

I clear my throat, trying desperately to sound like a normal, functioning human being. “You… want me in your space?”

His arms tighten around me. “Of course I do.”

His lips trail lower, his mouth a slow-burning comet tracing heat where it wanders. His hands, still wrapped around my waist, flex slightly—like he’s reminding himself to take his time

But I don’t want him to take his time.

A shaky breath escapes me as he presses a kiss just below my jaw. My fingers grip his arms instinctively, digging in as heat pools in my stomach.

His hands shift, sliding up my stomach, fingertips skimming the edge of my ribcage and then grazing the swell of my breasts through my thin cotton shirt. I let out a soft moan, arching into his touch, silently begging for more. 

He obliges, cupping my breasts fully in his large hands, his thumbs brushing over my nipples until they pebble beneath the fabric.

I can feel him, growing hard and insistent against my back, and a fresh wave of heat rushes through me. My pussy clenches around nothing, eager to be stuffed. He turns me in his arms, and I barely have time to breathe before his mouth is on mine. I melt into the kiss, my fingers tangling in his hair as I pull him closer.

His tongue swipes across my bottom lip, seeking entrance, and I readily part my lips. Our tongues dance and twine together as the kiss deepens, growing more ardent with each passing second. His kiss is electricity—ozone and stormlight, like lightning had licked the sky and landed on my tongue.

My hands tug impatiently at the hem of his shirt, longing to feel his bare skin against mine. He breaks the kiss, allowing me to pull the fabric over his head in one swift motion before doing the same to mine. For a moment, we just stare at each other, drinking in the sight of newly exposed flesh.

My chest heaves, nipples peaked and aching to be stimulated. The pang in my cunt is more intense than I’ve ever felt it, and I squeeze my thighs together just to relieve some of the hounding pulse.

Caleb’s strong hands find my waist, fingers pressing firm against my back as he pulls me close. Heat blooms where we meet, where fabric does nothing to keep the electricity at bay.

His fingers trace up my back, light enough to make me shudder, and he makes a sound low in his throat, something dangerous, approving, before his fingers tangle into my hair, tilting my head back to take more.

We stumble backwards until the backs of my knees hit the edge of the bed. I don’t know if I am standing or falling—only that he is everywhere. His touch a brand, a tether, a gravity I can’t escape.

Nor do I want to.

He lowers me gently onto the bed, his head dipping to take one of my nipples into his mouth. I cry out at the sensation, my back bowing off the bed as his tongue swirls around the sensitive bud. His hand comes up to palm my other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers until I'm writhing beneath him.

His hand slides down my stomach, fingertips skimming along my waistband before dipping beneath.

“Caleb.” I grab his forearm, halting any further progress.

“What is it?” He pulls back to look into my eyes. “Do you wanna stop? Are we escalating things too quickly?”

“No.” My voice is breathy and trembles with anticipation. “I’ve just… never done this before. I—I’m a virgin.”

His expression softens, and he brushes a strand of hair from my face tenderly. “Neither have I. We’ll take it slow, okay? Tell me everythin’: what feels good, what doesn’t; faster, slower, firmer, gentler. And if you want to stop at any point, you just have to say the word.”

I nod, swallowing hard as I gaze up at him with trust shining in my eyes. "Okay."

His hand resumes its southward path, slipping beneath my waistband once more. His fingers dip lower, teasing me through my panties. I gasp into his mouth, my hips bucking up involuntarily seeking more friction. He rubs slow circles over my sensitive flesh, and I can feel the damp fabric clinging to my drenched cunt.

Caleb groans, pressing his forehead against mine. "God, you're so wet already."

Slowly, fucking torturously, he drags my pants and panties down my legs, leaving my slick slit exposed to his heated admiration. Those eyes—lilac laced with wildfire—drag over me in a way that makes my breath catch. Inadvertently, I try to close my legs in a sudden bout of vulnerability, but his hand catches my knee, and he gently coaxes me to relax. 

“You’re beautiful,” he purrs before moulding his mouth to mine once more.

His fingers dawdle torturously languidly up my inner thighs. The slow drag leaves me trembling and feverish in undiluted craving. When they finally meet my swollen pussy, a depraved, appreciative growl burbles from his lips as his fingers part me, spreading my dripping arousal around.

He circles my clit with the pad of his thumb, and I moan, my nails digging into his shoulders. I'm lost in a haze of sensation, my mind going blissfully blank as he works my engorged bud skillfully. “Slower,” I whimper as the exquisite sensation becomes almost too much to bear.

Immediately, his fingers steady, sweeping leisurely circles and strokes. His lips drag along my jaw, the line of my throat. Heat spills across my skin where his breath grazes, where his lips press soft, then firmer, like he’s testing me. Like he’s waiting for me to break.

And I might.

My own hands betray me, sliding up his arms, his shoulders, tracing tense muscle. I realize, with a sharp thrill, that his breath is unsteady too. I’m not the only one shaking. The thought sends something wicked curling through me, and I tip my chin up, barely a whisper between us now.

His fingers glide down my seam, teasing my dribbling entrance. I cant my hips in an implicit acknowledgment, and he eases a finger in, teasing me before pushing inside. There’s a slight pinch of discomfort at the intrusion, but it quickly fades as he stills, giving me time to adjust.

All of my inhibitions have been seared away in the inferno of my blistering desire. Is it supposed to feel like this? A reckless, parlous urgency? I have no idea, but it feels fantastic to finally let go of my worries.

My lips find the contour of his jaw, planting breathless kisses along it, down his neck, and across his collarbone. I want to consume him. Devour him. Mark him as mine. 

I rock my hips wantonly, hopelessly fucking myself on his finger. He growls, a low rumbling in his chest that I feel against my lips, and starts pumping his finger deep into my quivering channel.

"More," I pant, my hips rocking against his hand, chasing the burgeoning pleasure building inside me. "Please, Caleb, I need…"

Caleb adds a second finger, stretching me further. He drives them in and out, curling them to hit a spot inside me that has my toes curling. His thumb finds my clit again, rubbing tight circles as his fingers thrust faster, plunging deeper.

The dual stimulation is fucking indescribable. I can feel myself tightening around him, my inner walls fluttering as I climb towards the peak. 

I lewdly curse, needy and unrestrained. “F-fuck! Caleb! Fuck yes!”

"That's it, baby," Caleb murmurs, his voice drenched with a desirous lilt. "Let me hear you."

One more swipe of his thumb and I'm flying, shattering into a million glittering pieces. Wave after wave of ecstasy crashes over me, stealing my breath and wiping my mind blank of everything but pure, unadulterated bliss. 

Caleb works me through it, drawing out my orgasm until I'm boneless and sated. As I float back down to earth, I realize Caleb is still achingly hard against my thigh. 

Emboldened by the haze of pleasure still fogging my brain, I reach between us to palm him through his pants. He sucks in a hiss of a breath, his abs contracting under my touch. I squeeze him gently, marvelling at the hard length of him. He's so big, I can barely wrap my hand around his girth.

Hooking my fingers into Caleb’s waistband, I tug slightly. He helps me push his pants down, freeing his straining erection, and kicking them off to the side. It springs up against his stomach, the swollen tip glistening, weeping bead after bead of his heady precum.

I wrap my fingers around his velvety shaft, giving him an experimental stroke from root to tip.

"Fuck, Inara," he groans, his hips jerking into my touch.

Gaining confidence, I start to pump him faster, twisting my wrist on the upstroke the way I've heard drives men wild. Based on the strangled sounds Caleb is making, I must be doing something right.

"Wait, wait," he pants after a minute, grabbing my wrist to still my movements. "If you keep that up, this is going to be over embarrassingly fast."

I can't help but feel a thrill of feminine pride at how wrecked he sounds, knowing I'm the one who did that to him. Caleb rolls me onto my back, hooking my leg with his knee and spreading me wide. I know my pussy is oozing. My arousal glissades down the curve of my ass before soaking into the sheets.

Caleb positions himself at my entrance, the broad head of his hefty cock nudging between my slick pussy lips. My heart is pounding in my chest, anticipation and nerves warring within me. This is really happening. I'm about to lose my virginity to Caleb, the boy—man—I’ve known for as long as I can remember. 

"Are you sure?" he asks, searching my face for any hint of hesitation or doubt.

I nod, cupping his jaw and bringing his mouth down to mine for a sweet, reassuring kiss. "I'm sure. I want you, Caleb. I want this.”

He exhales as if he were frightened my answer would be different. ”I'll go slow, angel. Tell me if it hurts, and I'll stop."

His hips rock forward gently, and I can feel the ridges of his head as soon as it begins to part my tight cunt. There's a sharp pinch and a burning sting as he breaches my barrier, claiming me. 

I gasp at the stretch, my body struggling to accommodate his size. It burns, but beneath the pain is a building pleasure, a delicious fullness that has me craving more.

"Breathe, baby," Caleb soothes, peppering kisses across my face as he stills inside me, giving me time to adjust. "Just relax."

I take a shuddering breath, willing my muscles to unclench. As the pain starts to ebb, I experimentally roll my hips, taking him even deeper.

We both groan at the sensation. "Fuck, you feel amazing," Caleb pants, his voice strained with hoarse, shuddering need.

Gradually, he starts to move, pulling out almost all the way before sliding back in to the hilt. The friction is goddamn mind-numbing. I can feel every ridge and vein of his cock dragging along my walls, hitting something deep inside me that has white-hot pleasure searing behind my eyelids.

I cling to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as he rocks into me again and again, gradually picking up speed. Pleasure coils tighter and tighter in my core with each thrust, winding me higher. I arch into him without meaning to. The feel of him, solid and warm, pressed fully against me—it’s dizzying.

He groans—quiet, barely restrained—and I feel the sound more than I hear it, deep in my chest, where my heart is already beating too fast. My world narrows to the place where we're joined, the delicious drag of his thick cock.

Caleb sits back on his heels, pushing my thigh up and to the side a little bit, allowing him to kiss my cervix with every pump. He watches himself disappear into me, burying himself with a snap of his hips that has his balls slapping against me.

His stare is a slow burn, violet with streaks of sunset fire, rapt by the sight of my tight cunt wrapped around his shaft. I whine when his fingers find my clit again, circling in time with his plunging thrusts.

As Caleb picks up speed, a feeling starts to build inside me, swelling and expanding until I'm sure I'll burst from the intensity of it. It's like nothing I've ever felt before, an all-consuming pleasure that threatens to incinerate me from the inside out.

"I'm close," I whimper, my head thrashing on the pillow as I chase that elusive peak. "Oh god, Caleb, I'm going to..."

My orgasm crashes over me like a tidal wave, stealing my breath and sending shockwaves of soul-shattering rapture ricocheting through my body. I arch off the bed, my inner walls clamping down around his shaft as I come undone. He moans, his rhythm faltering as my spasming muscles milk his cock.

Caleb follows me over the edge with a guttural groan, his cock pulsing inside me as he finds his release. I can feel the hot spurts of his release painting my walls, flooding my channel, and prolonging my orgasm. He collapses on top of me, our sweat-slicked bodies heaving as we struggle to catch our breath.

I feel like I'm floating, suspended in a haze of pleasure and satisfaction. Caleb's weight is a comforting presence, grounding me as I slowly come back to myself. I wrap my arms around him, savouring the feel of his slick skin against mine. 

I never want to let go.

After a few moments, he lifts his head from where it was buried in the crook of my neck. His eyes are soft and sated as they meet mine, a small smile playing at the corners of his lips. 

"That was incredible," he murmurs, brushing a tender kiss against my mouth.

I hum in agreement, still too blissed out to form words. I card my fingers through his damp hair, marvelling at the silky texture. Everything feels heightened, like all my nerve endings have been set alight.

Caleb rolls us so that we're lying on our sides, our bodies still intimately connected. He cups my face in his large, calloused palm, his thumb caressing my cheekbone with a tenderness that makes my heart ache.

We stay like that for a long time, trading soft kisses and gentle caresses as we bask in the afterglow. I can feel his heartbeat against my chest, strong and steady. It's the most soothing sound in the world.

Reluctantly, we untangle ourselves from each other. Caleb pulls out of me with a hiss, leaving me feeling empty and aching for him once more. Our combined pleasure is still sleek on the inside of my thighs, and my pussy still throbs in time with my heartbeat.

“Do you want some water?” He asks before settling.

I nod, and he kisses my forehead before leaving. On his way out, I admire the play of muscles in his back and the perfect curve of his ass with a contented sigh. 

He returns with the glass of water, his skin still flushed, hair mussed in a way that should not be legal, and absolutely not a shred of clothing on. The man has the nerve to look completely at ease.

I’ve shifted on the bed slightly, one arm tucked under my head, and I am, quite literally, gawking.

His eyes crinkle when he notices. “What are you lookin’ at?” he asks, grinning as he passes me the glass.

I take it wordlessly, drink too fast and choke a little, then manage to croak, “You.”

His brow lifts. “Oh yeah?”

“You have an annoyingly perfect body,” I mutter, handing the glass back. “It’s unfair, honestly. To men everywhere. No one else stands a chance.”

He laughs, shaking his head, clearly not buying it.

“No, I’m serious!” I sit up a little as I gesture at him like he’s some sort of exhibit. “Take your forearms, for example. Forearms, Caleb. Who the hell has attractive forearms?”

“I don’t know, pip-squeak,” he says, clearly trying—and failing—not to laugh. “Sounds like a you problem.”

“Don’t even get me started on your elbows, Caleb. Elbows shouldn’t be—” I throw a hand up. “I don’t know. Sexy? But yours are! What kind of cursed nonsense is that?”

He pauses, his grin widening in realization. “Wait a second… That night when you were practically passed out and mumbling about being coerced by someone’s forearms…”

My face lights on fire.

He leans in, voice smug as hell. “It was me, wasn’t it?”

I flop into the pillow with a dramatic groan. “You’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

“Not a chance.” He presses a kiss to the back of my shoulder, chuckling against my skin. “And for the record, I find your obsession with my elbows very charming.”

I groan into the pillow again, muffling out something that sounds vaguely like, “We are not talking about your elbows anymore.”

To escape this conversation, my eyes dart around the room, desperate for a change of topic. And then I blurt, “We should move your stuff back in here.”

He pauses. “Oh?”

“Yeah.” I sit up, trying for casual, though I’m still pink in the face. “If you still want to share a room, this room has the better view and all…”

Caleb props himself on one elbow, eyebrow raised. “Mmm, so you’re proposing a merger.”

“Of space, not lives.” I point a finger at him. “And full disclosure—my plushies are staying. I don’t care how ‘uncool’ it makes the room look.”

He lifts both hands in surrender, eyes twinkling like a constellation against the velvet embrace of the night sky. “Wouldn’t dream of touchin’ em.”

“That includes Mr. Apple,” I warn, glancing at the enormous red apple that was unfortunately relegated to the floor in our throes of passion. “He’s non-negotiable. He stays.”

Caleb turns toward the plushie like he’s regarding a rival. “That thing is larger than you.”

“I know. He brings me comfort.”

“Mmhm. Does he also snore?”

I swat at him with the pillow. “Only if you press his stomach too hard.”

He dodges the pillow, laughing. “Well, I suppose if I want to share a bed with you, I’ll have to make peace with Mr. Apple.”

Chapter Masterlist

From up here, I can only see a glint of Skyhaven’s steel and glass towers between the tears in the clouds as they drift lazily through the sky. The heat of Caleb's lips still lingers on mine; his touch branded against my skin. One minute, his hands were on me, his breath tangling with mine, the weight of years pressing in around us. 

Just as quickly as it all escalated, it crumbled. He was gone before I could even form a coherent response, his expression closed off, his voice clipped and professional. The moment we had shattered in an instant.

I rake my fingers through my hair, exhaling sharply. A sharp chime interrupts my spiralling thoughts. My Hunter’s watch vibrates against my wrist, its display flashing a stark red.

**Urgent Mission Alert: UNICORN Team Deployment Required.**

Normally, I wouldn’t think much of it—urgent missions come and go. But something about this one makes my stomach twist before I even look at the details. I tap the display, and a holographic interface flares to life.

Metaflux Surge: Detected

Wanderer Attack - In Progress  

Location: Skyhaven

Threat Level: Critical

To get the exact coordinates, I need to accept the mission. My fingers hover over the command, but my mind is already ahead of me, racing through possibilities, through logistics.

There is no way off this damn island. Caleb took his plane. I curse under my breath and push off from the railing, rushing inside. The sleek, minimalist interior feels too pristine, too still. I grab the remote and flip on the news.

Smoke coils into the air over Skyhaven, thick and black against the blue sky. The camera feed jitters as a news drone zooms in, capturing the chaos unfolding in the heart of the city.

We are bringing you live coverage of an ongoing attack in the East Nexus District,” the news anchor says, voice tight with urgency. “Authorities have confirmed that a Class-7 Ignitus Wyrmlord has emerged near the main transit hub, causing massive structural damage. The Fleet is currently on-site, working to contain the threat.”

My breath catches. The Fleet is on-site. Is this the ‘minor problem’ Caleb had to go look into? I clench my fists. Did he sideline me—again?

I spin on my heel and storm inside, shoving past furniture as I snatch my phone off the table. I dial Liam without hesitation.

He picks up on the second ring. “Colonel’s adjutant, Liam.”

“Liam, I need a transport.”

There’s a pause. “Inara?”

“Yes, me. I need to get to the station in Linkon—Association business.”

Another beat of silence, then, “The Colonel didn’t mention any Association assignments.”

I grit my teeth. “Because it just came in. It’s urgent.”

“Inara—”

“I’m not asking, Liam. Get me a shuttle.”

A sigh crackles through the speaker. “You’re really putting me in a bad position here.”

“Liam,” I say, forcing my voice into something softer, more pleading. “Please.”

A long pause, then a resigned exhale. “Shuttle’s en route.”

I tie my hair back, securing it tightly before strapping my holsters into place. Caleb’s room is my last stop—I grab my guns and extra ammunition before sprinting back outside. The minutes drag by agonizingly slowly before the shuttle finally arrives, but at least the descent is swift.

The moment the transport lands in Skyhaven, I move quickly. The officers accompanying me attempt to guide me towards the train station, but I have other plans.

“Sorry about this.” I barely give them time to react before knocking them both out cold. 

They really should train their recruits better. I make a mental note to tease Caleb about their training program after I’m done chastising him for leaving me behind.

Lunging into a sprint, I bring up my Hunter’s watch and accept the mission. The real-time GPS flickers to life, mapping out my route.

The city is a mess of noise and motion, people fleeing in all directions, alarms blaring, the sky stained with plumes of thick, black smoke. The closer I get to the fight, the more the air thrums with the crackle of energy weapons and guttural roars.

Above me, through gaps in the steel and glass skyline, I catch fleeting glimpses of the hulking, winged monstrosity, its body like dried, cracked magma, glowing veins of molten red searing through its form like rivers of fire. Its wings beat against the sky, the force sending gusts of scorching wind spiralling downward. 

The ground shakes as another explosion rocks the district, debris pelting the street ahead of me. I don’t stop. I leap over fallen signs, weave around abandoned vehicles, push past the few stragglers still too stunned to move. I barely register the sting of smoke in my throat, the acrid taste of burning metal on my tongue. 

I skid around a corner, nearly colliding with a barricade hastily set up by the Fleet. Heavily armed officers stand guard, rifles slung over their shoulders, their faces hidden behind tactical visors. 

Beyond them, I can see the towering wreckage of a collapsed building and, farther ahead, the sky boiling with embers as the Wanderer banks in the air, its massive form circling like a vulture. 

“Let me through,” I demand, barely stopping myself from shoving past them outright. “I’m with the Association—Deepspace Hunter, UNICORN Team.”

The nearest officer, a woman with a sharp stance, doesn’t so much as flinch. “This is Fleet business. You don’t have clearance.”

I grit my teeth. “You’re looking at a Hunter. My jurisdiction is wherever a Wanderer is.”

“Not today.”

I inhale sharply, forcing myself to stay calm. “I can help. I have field experience, and I can—”

“You’re not authorized. Step back.”

Every second I waste here is another second Caleb is out there, fighting that thing. Every second is another chance he gets hurt—or worse. Frustration coils in my chest, burning hotter than the embers still floating through the air. 

I clench my fists, weighing my options. I can’t just stand here. I have to get through. One way or another.

Before I can make a move, an explosion rocks the barricade. The force sends me stumbling, hands flying up to shield my face as shards of glass and steel rain down. The Fleet officers duck, turning toward the source of the blast, their attention momentarily diverted.

That’s my opening.

I lunge forward, shoving past the first guard. Another reaches for me, catching my wrist. I twist, using my momentum to wrench free, planting my foot into the side of his knee just enough to make him stagger. Someone else grabs my arm, but I ram my elbow back into his gut and pull away before he can tighten his grip. 

Another officer tries to tackle me outright, and I barely manage to slip under her grasp, rolling forward and springing up into a dead sprint.

The battlefield is chaos incarnate. The streets are torn apart, flames licking up from shattered vehicles, debris scattered like a warzone. 

The Ignitus Wyrmlord wheels overhead, its molten veins glowing brighter as it gathers power. Fleet soldiers scramble for cover, weapons firing in desperate bursts. Some are down, clutching wounds, and I don’t hesitate—I duck behind cover, drag an injured officer away from the open, tucking them behind a crumbling wall before leaping back into the fray.

The Wanderer lets out a bone-shattering roar, swooping low, and I seize my chance. I spring onto the hood of a burnt-out car, vault off it into a backflip, firing mid-air. My shots strike true, the beast reeling back with a snarl.

I land smoothly, pivoting, eyes scanning the battlefield. Where the hell is Caleb? A man that tall shouldn’t be this hard to find.

The Ignitus Wyrmlord is fast in the air, but its wings are too heavy to keep it aloft for long. It has to land often, claws slamming into the pavement and sending fresh cracks splintering through the ground. 

That gives me my chance.

Between lunging strikes, I finally spot him. Caleb is directly beneath the beast’s molten belly, his Evol engaged, hands braced upward, holding back its crushing weight. His entire body strains, muscles taut with exertion, veins prominent as he keeps it from flattening him and an unconscious officer at his side. His knees are bent, feet planted, but he won’t be able to hold it forever.

No time to think.

I sprint, dodging the burning slag that drips from the cracks in the creature’s hide. My feet barely touch the ground as I throw myself into a slide, skidding on debris and dust, right underneath its stomach. Caleb doesn’t see me—his jaw is clenched, eyes fixed upwards, focused on not being crushed—until my hand clamps around his wrist.

The moment our skin connects, raw power surges between us, an energy that crackles and hums through my very bones. His strength expands like a dam breaking. 

With a snarl, Caleb heaves, forcing the Wyrmlord’s bulk upward just enough to shift its weight off them. It stumbles back, unbalanced, and he seizes the moment to shove it away. It lurches backward, buying us a few precious seconds before it regains its footing and takes to the sky again.

The unconscious officer is still sprawled beside us, and I grab her under the arms, dragging her away from the fray. Caleb is already moving to help, despite the exhaustion evident in his posture.

As soon as we have the officer tucked behind a slab of fallen concrete, Caleb turns to me, panting, “What are you doing here?”

I flash a grin, breathless. “Apparently, saving your dumb ass.”

His lips press together in a thin line, but I see the way his shoulders lower a fraction. He’s relieved, even if he won’t admit it. He shifts, checking the ammunition left in his gun, exhaling sharply when he realizes it’s not enough.

I casually hold out a new clip, wiggling it between my fingers, smug. “Looking for this?”

Caleb snatches it from my grasp with an irritated grunt, but the corner of his mouth twitches, betraying him. He reloads with practiced efficiency. The gunfire around us is relentless, but the bullets barely scratch the Ignitus Wyrmlord’s molten hide.

I snap a fresh magazine into place, double-checking my clips while I talk. "Its weak spot is near the top of its head."

Caleb leers at me. He knows exactly where I am going with this before I even say it. "No."

I arch a brow at him. "No?"

"No, I am not liftin’ you up there."

"Well," I say, gesturing vaguely to the beast still circling overhead, "it is either that, or we just plug it full of bullets until they run out. And then what, Colonel?"

His eye twitches. "I will suck it into a black hole."

I snort. "Oh, sure. If you weren’t already so damn tired, I might actually believe that is an option. I can do this. Trust me.”

With clear reluctance, he snaps, “Fine.”

I nod. “Wait until it lands, and then get me up there. I'll do the rest.”

There’s no more time for second-guessing. We break from cover, guns blazing, the sharp retort of bullets cutting through the air. The Wyrmlord snarls, wings beating as it dodges, but we press it, pushing it lower to force it down. It slams into the ground with an earth-shaking impact.

The moment it touches down, I move. Sprinting full speed, I launch myself at a steel beam jutting from the street, using it as a ramp to propel myself higher. The second my feet leave metal, Caleb’s Evol surges around me, gravity bending in his command. I feel it—an unseen force gripping my body, flinging me upward with a sudden, stomach-flipping burst of power.

I’m weightless—suspended in the ash-laden air as I arc toward the Wyrmlord’s back. I land hard on the beast’s neck, knees bending to absorb the shock. Heat radiates, searing heat through the soles of my boots, warning me that one wrong move could cook me alive.

It screeches, body twisting violently, trying to shake me off. I stumble but lurch forward, sprinting up the sinuous column of its neck. Every step is a battle for balance as it thrashes to throw me off. 

The beast jerks, throwing itself into the sky. My stomach lurches as the ground vanishes beneath me. Damn it. I reach for any handhold, fingers scraping against the jagged cracks of its molten hide. Heat licks at my gloves, blistering even through the reinforced fabric, but I grit my teeth and hold on.

It thrashes again, twisting mid-air. My grip falters—I slide, my body dangling off its side, only held up by sheer desperation. The sky spins in a dizzying blur, the ruined city below a patchwork of fire.

Gritting my teeth, I haul myself up and push past the burning ache in my muscles. I swing a leg over, straddling the beast’s neck again as I finally reach the vulnerable patch at the base of its skull. I press the muzzle of my gun flush against the exposed, softer tissue.

I empty the clip in rapid succession, each round ripping through the weak spot, dark ichor splattering across my arms and chest. The Wyrmlord lets out a piercing, gut-wrenching shriek that rattles my bones, its body convulsing as its wings seize.

Then, everything gives way. It disintegrates into a cascade of embers and ash, vanishing into the wind like a dying star.

And I’m falling. No time to think. No time to scream. Just the cold, crushing realization that the ground is rushing up to meet me at a speed my body will not survive.

Fuck.

Caleb's Evol slows my descent, and then he catches me in his arms. He's sweaty, covered in ash, dirt, and blood. I know I have probably fared no better. My damp clothes cling to my body, hair sticking to my forehead. Still, we just stare at each other.

Until someone calls out for Colonel Caleb, and the moment breaks. His expression shuts down, his face smoothing over into that unreadable mask of his. He sets me down without a word.

"Get the medics in here to treat the wounded," he orders, striding away. "Evac any civilians still in the area. Secure the perimeter, and make sure none of those bastards are left lurking in the rubble. I want a full report on my desk within the hour. And someone call the cleanup team—we need to clear the debris before the next patrol shift."

I leave him to it, stepping off to the side to find a relatively intact piece of debris to sit on. Pulling up my Hunter's watch, I report back to the Association that the area has been cleared. 

The message is barely sent when hands clamp around my arms from behind. I jerk instinctively, but another set of hands grabs my wrist, twisting it just enough to make me stop struggling. I whip my head around and recognize them instantly—the officers from the barricade. 

"You are under arrest for assaulting officers of the Fleet," one of them snarls. "You ignored direct orders and interfered with an official operation. Your reckless actions endangered personnel, and you will be detained pending further investigation."

I laugh. Actually laugh. "Oh, come on. Do you know how many Fleet officers I just saved? I should be getting a damn medal, not—"

They yank me forward, cutting me off. I wrench my arm, but their grip tightens. "You do not get to disregard Fleet authority just because you are a Hunter."

"Unhand her.” Caleb’s voice is cold, commanding, and immediate. 

The officers freeze. 

"Sir," one of them starts. “She—she assaulted—"

"She assisted in neutralizing a critical threat to Skyhaven and prevented further casualties," Caleb states flatly. "If you have an issue with her methods, you can take it up with me. Understood?"

There is a beat of silence before the officers reluctantly let me go. Caleb’s gaze doesn’t shift from them, his stance rigid. "Dismissed."

They nod stiffly before turning on their heels and walking away. 

He doesn’t even look at me before saying, "It’s time to go. Our evac is here."

I rub my wrist but don’t argue, following him to the waiting transport. The flight back to Fleet Headquarters is silent. Caleb sits stiffly, arms crossed, staring out the window. I know that look—he’s thinking, dissecting every moment of the battle, calculating his next move.

When we land, he doesn’t even wait for me to get out of the shuttle before asking, "How did you get to Skyhaven?"

I blink, feigning innocence. "Oh, you know. I jumped off the edge and flew down like an angel."

His glare could cut steel. Without a word, he presses his earpiece. "Pull the Fleet shuttle logs for Skyhaven."

Shit.

I sigh, knowing Liam’s about to get caught in the crossfire. "Okay, okay! I called Liam and had him send a shuttle. But it wasn’t his fault! I lied to him, told him I had urgent Hunter’s business and needed to get to the Association right away. He even sent guards to escort me to the station!"

Caleb’s eyes narrow slightly. "And what happened to these guards?"

I scratch my cheek. "Well, I might have, kind of… well, you see… I… knocked them out."

Caleb pinches the bridge of his nose. "Of course you did."

Something inside me snaps. I keep my voice low, but the anger is there. "You sidelined me. Again. Just like when we were kids. You can’t keep doing this, Caleb."

He lifts his head slowly, expression unreadable. "Can’t I?"

There’s something dark in the way he says it, a quiet warning—almost a threat. My anger boils hotter, but before I can say another word, a voice interrupts.

"Colonel Caleb."

Aurelia Voss.

I turn, immediately not liking what I see. She side-eyes me—not in a dismissive way, but in a calculating, judging-my-worth kind of way. Like she is trying to determine if I am even worth acknowledging.

Caleb steps aside with her, far enough that I cannot hear their conversation. My anger simmers, but my focus shifts. I watch the exchange unfold with a growing sense of irritation. She stands too close to him. Leaning in, batting her lashes, laughing at something even though Caleb’s face is as flat as a white wall.

What could she possibly be laughing at? Colonel Caleb does not joke. He does not even smile unless it is at someone else's expense.

Oh, and now she is touching his arm?

My jaw tightens. I cross my arms, glaring daggers at her back. If looks could kill, she would have dropped dead the second she walked up to him. My fingers twitch with the urge to—no. I cannot just shoot people.

…Can I?

If she leans in one more time, I might just have to conveniently trip and spill something on her. Shame there is no coffee around.

She laughs again. My eye twitches. Aurelia is practically purring at Caleb, her voice all sugary and sweet, like she’s auditioning for some romantic drama where she gets the guy. Every little movement she makes sends my blood pressure skyrocketing.

What if I shoved her into one of those industrial trash disposals? I could make it look like an accident. Yeah, nobody would miss her.

My foot starts tapping, a telltale sign that my irritation is growing. God, I hate her. She puffs her chest out like a peacock, parading around like she’s the queen of the universe. I can almost hear her in my head, like a broken record: “Oh, Caleb, you’re so strong, capable, and devastatingly handsome. Can I lick the sweat off your abs?”

I scoff loudly, so loud even I’m surprised. They both look at me. She bats her stupid lashes and turns her head slowly, like she’s just realized she has an audience. Caleb doesn’t even acknowledge me, his eyes flicking toward me for a second before he returns to listening to her.

But she? She smirks. That smug little, “I’m-better-than-you” smirk. My teeth grit as I stare at her. I’d like to see her try this crap when I’m holding a gun.

The tap-tap-tap of my foot is getting faster with every second she stays there. It’s so hard not to do something ridiculous—like just storm over and slap the shit-eating grin off her face. I cross my arms and lean against the wall, eyes glued to them like I’m watching some soap opera unfold.

The conversation finally ends, and Caleb strides back over to me. "Come on," he motions toward the flight deck. "The plane is ready. I'll take you home."

I walk beside him, grumbling under my breath. Caleb has always had ample admirers. In middle school, high school, and college, he had me pretend to be his girlfriend on several occasions lest he have to beat them back with a stick. I mean, I get it. Look at him. He's handsome, talented, and caring. The whole package, really. 

It didn't irk me as much back then, but it downright pisses me off now. I should not even be focusing on this. I should be focusing my rage into trying to get Caleb to see me as someone capable of walking beside him instead of behind him. 

We climb into the plane, buckle up, and I sit there with my arms crossed and stew in my jealous spiral.

"Whatcha grumblin' about, pip-squeak?" Caleb's voice is back to being animated and warm. 

"She was flirting with you," I snap.

"Was she?" He shrugs. "I didn't notice."

I gawk at him, my mouth hanging open for a second, stunned by his complete lack of awareness. “You didn’t notice?” I practically choke on the words, my voice a little too high-pitched with disbelief. “She was literally batting her lashes at you like she was trying to hypnotize you with them, and you didn’t notice?”

Caleb shrugs again, the casual, unfazed idiot. “Guess I was too busy focusin’ on other things. It’s not like I’m interested.”

I scoff, rolling my eyes. “Uh, hello? Newsflash, Colenol Caleb, you’re always the centre of attention. It doesn’t matter whether you’re interested or not. It’s just… the principle of it. She was all over you!”

He leans back in his seat, giving me a sideways glance. “You know, you’re adorable when you’re jealous.”

I freeze, my heart skipping a beat before my temper catches up with it. “I am not jealous!” I snap, trying to bite back the sudden flare of heat in my chest. I cross my arms even tighter, as if physically holding in all the ridiculous feelings I’m having. “I’m just—ugh, whatever.”

He tilts his head. “You don’t have to worry about her.”

“Well, maybe you should show her that you're not interested,” I grumble, staring out the window, willing the irritation to just dissipate. “Because I swear, if I see her trying to wrap herself around you like that again…”

“Again? You’re really worked up over this, aren’t you?”

“No!” I almost yell, but I manage to keep my voice from fully rising.

“Alright, alright,” he says with mock surrender, leaning back in his seat. “But you know… I think it’s kind of cute how worked up you get. Makes me feel important.”

“Do you wanna pretend to be my girlfriend again to scare away any potential advances?” Caleb teases, his voice dripping with mischief.

I freeze, the words catching in my throat. Could I really go back to pretending? I’d slip into the role of his fake girlfriend, and bam, problem solved. Something about the notion stings.

I stare out the window for a moment, my mind racing, and then I murmur, “What if…”

“What if what?” Caleb asks, guiding the plane into an easy bank as we near his house. His voice is casual, but there’s an edge of curiosity there.

I shake my head, trying to push the thoughts back. “Nevermind. It’s stupid.”

Caleb glances over at me, one eyebrow lifted in that infuriatingly calm way of his. “C’mon, pip-squeak,” he urges, leaning a little closer, like he’s genuinely interested. “What if what?”

I glance down at my lap, my fingers playing nervously with the edge of my sleeve. I’m quiet for a moment, my thoughts all tangled up in each other. The words finally slip out, quieter than I intended. “What if I don’t want to pretend anymore?”

It feels like I’ve just dropped a bomb, and I don’t know how he’s going to react. My heart races, but I can’t take it back now.

Caleb is silent for a second, and for a moment, I think maybe I’ve said too much. Then, his expression softens. A wide grin spreads across his face, and his voice, usually so cool and composed, comes out with excitement, almost breathless.

“You don’t?” he says, his eyes lighting up. “You mean it? You’re serious? This isn’t a prank, right?”

I blink, taken aback by the sudden change in his energy. “Yeah, I’m serious.”

There’s a lightness to him that’s contagious. His hand reaches over, and for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a casual gesture. It feels right, and I let him take my hand without hesitation. 

“It’s always been you, pip-squeak,” he assures, his voice suddenly low, full of sincerity. “It always will be.”

I dry a plate and set it aside, trying to ignore the way Caleb keeps brushing against me. It’s nothing, probably just my overactive imagination. Maybe he’s just extra tired this morning and not paying attention to personal space.

It happens again. I reach for a dish towel, and Caleb moves behind me to grab a pan from the oven. His groin—not his hip, not his thigh, but very specifically his groin—brushes against my lower back. It’s barely a touch, but it’s enough to send my brain cartwheeling in my skull.

Okay. That… could have been an accident.

I take a deep breath and return to my task, studiously avoiding looking at him. I can do this. I can dry dishes and put them away without making it weird.

Or at least, I could if Caleb didn’t proceed to press himself against my back, his chest warm and solid as he reaches past me. I freeze, a freshly dried mug in my hand, as he takes it from me like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He slots it onto the shelf. The one I can’t reach because I am too damn short and his kitchen is too damn tall. His arms bracket me in, his breath ruffling a few stray strands of my hair. The warmth of him lingers against my back even after he steps away.

That one was definitely not an accident. I grip the counter like it’s the only thing keeping me tethered to sanity and blink hard.

“Are you alright?” Caleb asks, ever-so-innocent as he goes back to washing the dishes.

“Fine,” I squeak. Too high-pitched. Too fast. Damn it.

I pick up another dish, willing my hands to stop shaking. But then—then—he leans down to wipe the counter, and I swear I feel his breath ghost over the back of my neck.

My fingers slip on the plate, and I barely catch it before it crashes into the sink. I focus on drying the dish with military precision. Because if I don’t, I might start wondering what his hands would feel like if they weren’t just brushing past me but actually holding me. Or what would happen if I turned around and—

Nope. Abort mission.

I press my palms against the counter, silently praying to any and all deities who might be listening to save me from my own inappropriate thoughts. I am absolutely, unequivocally losing my fucking mind.

My knees do that strange thing where they jitter underneath my skin. My stomach ties itself into fancy knots, and I have to press my thighs together and swallow a groan.

I bolt outside the second we finish the dishes, pacing across the terrace and gulping in lungfuls of fresh air like I’ve been drowning.

Which, in a way, I have.

Drowning in Caleb.

I drag my hands down my face, only to freeze and yank them away in horror. Did I just touch my face with dishwater hands? Oh god, I am unravelling. He is unravelling me. And what’s worse? He knows it. He has to. 

No man casually presses his entire body against someone like that, in their own damn kitchen, without an agenda.

I consider my options.

Option one: pretend none of this is happening. Ignore it. Denial is my classic move.

Option two: launch myself off the floating landmass in sheer frustration and let gravity solve my problems. The wind currents might take me somewhere peaceful. Somewhere without smirking colonels who smell like cedarwood, ozone, and sinful temptation.

Option three: march right back inside and demand answers.

“What is your goal, Caleb? Do you take pleasure in my suffering? Do you lie awake at night, dreaming up new ways to drive me to the edge of insanity?”

Except I already know the answer to that. Yes. Yes, he does. I groan and press my forehead against the cool railing. It is not fair, whatever he’s doing. Whatever game he’s playing.

This teasing—this slow, torturous undoing—he’s enjoying it far too much.

And the worst part?

So am I.

You know what? Two can play at this game! I actually rub my hands together like a maniacal, evil genius concocting a plan for world ruin, except the plan here is to bring Caleb to his knees.

I march to my room like a woman on a mission, passing by Caleb, who barely looks at me while he tinkers with the model we are supposed to be finishing together. To be fair, I am fairly useless with models and mostly just enjoy watching him do it. The way his fingers move, the dexterity, the cute little face he makes when he’s focused—it’s all deeply unfair.

But soon, the tables will turn.

In my room, I comb out my hair, making sure the soft waves flow just so. This is strategy. This is war. Every strand must be in its proper place, every detail accounted for.

Then, I march to my dresser, rifling through the mess of clothes until my fingers find something delicate, something devastating—lace boyshorts, cute and just the right amount of scandalous. I don’t even know why I have these here, but I am suddenly thankful for my impeccable, possibly psychic foresight.

I grab a tank top next, tossing it on without hesitation. It bares a sliver of my abdomen and dips low across my chest. Not too obvious, not too desperate—just enough to make him suffer.

Yes, this will do nicely.

Unfortunately, to absolutely no one’s shock, I am awkward. Which means I have to give myself a good psyching up for this—a pep talk like no other.

I plant my hands on my hips and stare at myself in the mirror like I’m about to give the most inspiring speech of my life. The kind that rouses armies. The kind that makes hardened generals shed a single, manly tear.

“Alright, Inara,” I say, pointing at my reflection. “This is it. This is your moment. You have been backed into a corner by the most infuriating man in existence, and you are going to come out swinging. You are a weapon. A walking distraction. A deadly combination of wit, charm, and—” I glance down at myself, adjusting the hem of my tank top, “—well-placed fabric. You can do this.”

“You are a woman of tactics, of strategy. You have stared into the abyss of combat, survived untold horrors, endured the hell of group projects in university, and by the stars will, you will not—will not—be bested in the art of seduction by your childhood best friend who smells like an expensive candle and walks around like he is some kind of gift to humanity. No. No, you will be the problem here. You will be the menace. You will bring Caleb to his knees.”

I inhale. Exhale. I tug my tank top down just a little, fluff my hair, and roll my shoulders back. A vision of confidence. A masterclass in subtle allure. The very picture of temptation itself.

Then I trip over the corner of my rug and nearly faceplant.

I groan and bury my face in my hands. I gather what’s left of my dignity, square my shoulders, and stride out of my room, ready to change the course of history. I am cool, collected, and completely in control.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

The reality is that my pulse is hammering, my palms are sweating, and I can hear the faintest whisper of my own conscience screaming, What the hell are you doing?!

But I ignore it. Who needs a conscience anyway?

I walk into the living room like I belong here, like I have no ulterior motive whatsoever, just a casual woman strolling through her best friend’s house in her underwear because it is her fucking right.

Caleb is exactly where I left him, sitting at the coffee table, focused on the model ship. He doesn’t even glance up at first, fingers carefully adjusting a delicate piece of the structure, his brow furrowed in that way that makes him look both unbearably handsome and devastatingly serious.

Then, slowly, he senses me. I know the exact moment he registers that I am standing there, watching him, and that something is different.

His hands still. His breathing shifts. His eyes flick up.

I brace myself for something. A reaction. A double take. Maybe even a cough or a stammer.

Instead, he just… stares.

And I swear to every deity, every omnipotent force in the galaxy, he looks me over so slowly that it could almost be called lazy. His eyes drags from my bare legs to the hem of my tank top, pausing, lingering, before it continues upward, meeting my eyes with something indecipherable in his expression.

I am expecting—hoping—for a slip in his composure. A twitch of his fingers. A parting of his lips. Some sign that he is not as unaffected as he looks.

But rather, he just raises a single, maddening eyebrow and goes, “…Nice outfit.”

Oh, he’s good.

Fine. If he wants to play it cool, I will simply have to turn up the heat. 

I hum thoughtfully, turning away from him with an exaggerated stretch, arms lifting over my head, back arching just enough to pull my tank top higher. “Oh, man,” I sigh, “I must have slept weird. My back is just so tight.”

I don’t need to look to know he’s watching. I feel it. But his voice is calm when he says, “You should stretch more.”

Damn him.

I let my arms fall, making a show of bending deep to pick up something—anything—off the floor. My fingers grasp a random pen from under the coffee table, and I take my sweet time standing back up, extra slow, just in case he needs a better look.

Silence.

I flick a glance over my shoulder. Caleb still looks entirely composed, only the slight tapping of his fingers against his knee betraying any reaction.

Alright. War it is.

I saunter over to the couch and sit beside him—not too close, but close enough. My legs fold beneath me, and I sigh in contentment, deliberately shifting as if I can’t quite get comfortable. Then I stretch again, arching my spine, arms reaching behind my head.

Nothing. Not even a twitch.

I let my hand rest lightly on his arm, feigning curiosity. “Whatcha working on?” My voice is so sweet I might make myself sick.

He barely looks at me. “Same model as before.”

I nod like that makes perfect sense, tilting my head to watch his hands. He keeps working, seemingly unbothered, but I know him. His jaw is just a little tighter, his breathing a fraction shallower.

I am winning.

I let my fingers ghost against his arm, casual, totally innocent, tracing patterns against the firm muscle. “You have nice hands,” I muse, letting my voice dip into something just slightly suggestive.

His hands pause. It’s brief—so brief I might’ve imagined it—but it happened. I know it did. Slowly, he sets the model down and leans back, exhaling through his nose.

“Inara,” he says, voice low. “What exactly are you doin’?”

I widen my eyes, all innocence. “Sitting?”

His gaze dips, ever so briefly, to where my tank top has shifted, revealing just a little more of my cleavage than before. When his eyes snap back up, they are darker.

I bite back a victorious grin. Checkmate.

Caleb leans in, his breath warm against my skin, and I swear the air between us turns electric. His voice is husky, threading with something serious when he murmurs, “You are playin’ a dangerous game, pip-squeak.”

A shiver races down my spine at the sound of it, but I do not back down. 

The backs of his fingers brush along my arm, slow and deliberate, a touch so light it’s infuriating. “And I don’t think you can handle the consequences. Not right now.”

I shift closer, my knee brushing against his, my hand pressing lightly against his chest. “You keep talking about consequences,” I murmur, tilting my head just enough that our noses nearly touch, “but you have not actually said what they are.”

His gaze dips to my lips. Just for a second. Then back up. “You are smarter than that.”

My heart pounds. “Am I?”

“You think this is a game.”

I shake my head, slowly, letting my fingers drag down his chest, feeling the steady thud of his heartbeat beneath my touch. “No,” I breathe. “I think you are scared.”

His eyes narrow, a challenge flashing there, and when he speaks again, his voice is rough. “Careful, pip-squeak.”

It should be a warning. Maybe it is. But all it does is make me lean in closer, pressing against the tension that coils between us, that pulls at us like gravity.

“You know,” I muse, deliberately letting my breath ghost against his lips, “if you really wanted me to stop, you would have moved by now.”

His jaw tightens. I see the war waging inside him, the push and pull of restraint, the sheer willpower it is taking for him to stay still when I know—I know—he wants to break just as badly as I do.

The moment stretches, taut and charged, aching.

And then, finally—finally—I break it.

“Fuck it,” I whisper, and before he can say another word, before he can second-guess or pull away or give me another irksome warning, I grab his face and kiss him.

The moment my lips meet his, everything shatters. It’s not gentle. Not soft. It’s fire, and it’s explosive, and it’s been building up between us for years. Years of teasing, of glances that linger too long, of words unsaid, of touch that goes just a little too far.

His lips are warm, rougher than I expected. There’s a familiarity to the way he kisses, like I’ve been here before, like I’ve always known the taste of him, even when I didn’t. His mouth is demanding, urgent, as if he’s been holding back just as long as I have.

I can’t tell if I’m the one moaning or if it’s him, but either way, it’s a sound I feel in my bones. His breath is ragged, warm against my mouth, and I find myself tugging him closer. I’ve never been so hungry, so fucking starved for someone, for this, for him.

I straddle him without breaking the kiss. His hands move to my back, pulling me flush against him, his lips crashing against mine like he’s been starving for this moment, too. I can taste the faint salt of his skin, the sharpness of his breath, the edge of him—of everything he’s been holding back.

The kiss deepens, becomes more frantic, almost as if we’re both trying to prove something. His tongue slips past my lips, and I gasp into him, fingers gripping at his hair, pulling him even closer, as though there’s a part of me afraid if I let go, I’ll lose this moment.

He groans against my mouth, the sound vibrating through me, and it’s too much, but it’s not enough. I need him closer; I need to feel the press of him all over me. We’ve both been dancing around this for too long, pretending we’re not on the verge of collapsing, pretending we’re not already lost.

His hands slip under my shirt, sliding up my back, only to rake his fingernails down my spine. The sensation makes me whine, my head tipping back. He kisses along my jaw, to my neck, breath hot against my skin.

Caleb groans, but it sounds wrong, pained. When I look at him, his eyes are squeezed shut so tight they crinkle at the corners. I’ve seen this look before… on Kevi. I know it’s that chip, but I don’t know what it does or how to stop it.

“Hey, are you okay?” I cradle his cheeks, pressing my forehead to his, trying to catch the breath he stole from my lungs.

“I’m—” He grunts again, gritting his teeth with a hiss of breath. “Fine.”

“Caleb, do you need to stop?” I brush my thumb across his cheek, as if I might be able to soothe away whatever is happening. “Talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.”

His eyes flutter open—dark, molten, like storm clouds on the brink of thunder—hold me captive. They shimmer with a quiet hunger, a promise of things unsaid, of nights we’ve yet to live. They’re full of fire, but it’s the kind that smoulders, slow-burning, waiting for just the right spark to ignite. In them, I see the uncharted territories of his thoughts—places I want to explore and places he fears to let me.

“Do you want to keep going?” He rasps, rough as sandpaper, deep as the abyss.

His fingers flex into my waist, as if he’s preparing himself for an answer he doesn’t want to hear. I’ve rarely seen Caleb fight for control of himself. He’s usually so composed, so self-assured, but right now, I’m pretty sure he’s teetering on a tightrope that might snap at any moment.

“Yes,” I blush, pressing a kiss to Caleb’s forehead.

It’s all the confirmation he needs. His fingers thread into my hair, pulling my mouth back to his with a feverish intensity that makes my clit throb, begging for attention. My panties are soaked. I can feel my arousal slick against my thighs. My fingers find the hem of his shirt, sliding the fabric up. He breaks the kiss, only to pull it over his head and toss it aside carelessly.

His hands find my thighs, and he stands in one fluid movement, guiding my legs around his waist. He strides forward, and the hallway passes in a blur of tangled limbs and needy groans. He lowers me gently onto the bed, his weight pressing me comfortably into the mattress. I wrap my legs around his hips, urging him to give me the friction right where I crave it.

He rocks his hips, pressing the hard length of his arousal against my swollen flesh. I choke out a whine, which he swallows straight off my lips as if he might be able to drink it down.

Caleb’s ringtone blares, bringing us both back to reality. He curses under his breath, taking the phone out of his pocket and tossing it aside without bothering to glance at the caller ID.

His fingers glide up my thighs, dawdling maddeningly. My pussy clenches the closer his strong fingers get to the apex of my thighs. I think I might spontaneously combust.

The AI assistant on his nightstand flashes a bright red exclamation mark. He sneers, reaching over to grab an earpiece from the tabletop and placing it into his ear.

“What?” His voice is cold and unemotional, the demeanour of the colonel sliding right back into place. Even his expression closes off and becomes stony. “I’ll look into it immediately.”

He exhales sharply, closing his eyes for half a second like he’s willing this interruption out of existence. Then, with an irritated shake of his head, he mutters, “Sorry. I have to deal with this.”

The apology sounds hollow, as if he’s already somewhere else. He doesn’t wait for me to respond—he’s already moving toward his closet, reaching for his shirt, tugging it over his head with swift, practiced motions. His jaw is tight, his shoulders tense.

“Is it serious?” I ask, pushing up onto my elbows. “I can help—”

“No.” The word is clipped, final. He fastens his belt with quick efficiency. “It’s a minor problem. I’ll be back later.”

There’s no room for argument, no space for questions. His tone is distant, colder than it was just moments ago when he was looking at me like I was the only thing in the galaxy.

He leans down, pressing a whisper of a kiss against my forehead. “Sorry,” he says again, softer this time, but it doesn’t make a difference.

Then he’s gone. Just like that.

I sit there, staring at the space he left behind, at the sheets still tangled from where we had been. Slowly, I draw my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms around them. The room feels quieter than it should, empty in a way that isn’t just physical. I swallow against the ache in my throat, pressing my forehead to my knees.

The crack between us grows wider.

Monotonous white and grey walls are my entire existence. The people in lab coats are all I’ve ever known. They lead me places by the hand, whispering lies that everything will be okay, but I know it won’t.

Wherever they take me, pain follows.

Sometimes the torture extends until my body gives out. When I wake, my memories remain a shattered mirror—the pieces are there, but the reflection is wrong. 

The only reprieve I’m afforded is the boy with warm violet eyes. Sometimes they let us play together. Whenever we meet, he always tells me his name, as if I might have forgotten it. How many times have I forgotten now? He pushes me on the swing and plays tag with me. His laughter is bright and vibrant, a sound that makes my insides feel light, like I am more than the wires and pain.

When they separate us, sometimes they put us in rooms divided by thick glass. We can see each other, but we can’t touch or talk. Still, he presses his little hand to the glass, fingers splayed, and I match mine to his. 

Today, I don’t feel well. My head pounds, my vision swells and recedes, and when I try to run, I lose my breath too quickly.

He sits with me on the playground floor. The artificial green blades are stiff and jabbing under my palms. The boy points to the painted mural on the wall and tells me the names of things—sun, clouds, birds. Every name feels foreign on my tongue, but I repeat him anyway, trying to commit these things to memory.

We both hear the telltale series of beeps when they come, the people in white coats. The boy tenses, grabbing my hand and tucking me behind him, shielding me with his small frame. 

My heart pounds in my temples uncomfortably as he stands his ground. The air around us shifts—metal creaks, the swing groans as its chains snap free. The monkey bars rattle violently, coming free from their bolted place and swinging askew. 

It won’t matter. It never does. It’s only a matter of time before they come with thin metal things they stick into our skin that make us sleepy.

I tug on his sleeve. “Don’t.” My voice is small and trembling. “It’s okay, Caleb. Let me go.”

The name rolls off my tongue, dear and estranged in equal measure. Caleb, Caleb, Caleb—I repeat it to myself. It stirs a cascade of emotion, and something inside my brain seems to stutter like it’s trying to shut down whatever his name makes me feel. I grind my teeth together and fight against that feeling of being rewritten. 

If I remember one thing, let it be him.

I push myself unsteadily off the ground and shove him behind me, stumbling toward the people in white coats. He screams as they take me, a heartrending wail of unadulterated rage. Glancing over my shoulder, I try to tell him it’s okay, but they’ve pinned him to the ground with that gleaming metal stick in hand.

The chair waits for me with its restraints open, and they strap me in, cooing false reassurances. Wires are attached to my head, chest, and arms. The room goes dark, and electricity arcs through me. My muscles seize, my back tries to bow, and my scream chokes out of me.

Calm voices read out numbers that mean nothing to me. I beg them to stop. I sob, scream, and tell them it hurts, but they do it again. And again. And again.

Will I ever feel anything but pain again?

I wake with a strangled gasp, and my entire body jerks like I’ve been struck. My skin is slick with sweat, the damp fabric of my shirt clinging uncomfortably to me. My chest rises and falls in rapid, shallow breaths, my heart hammering against my ribs as though trying to escape.

Pain lingers in phantom echoes—slithering under my skin, in my bones, through my teeth. I feel the straps on my wrists, the cold bite of metal electrodes, even though I know they are not there. My fingers twitch like they remember the current surging through them.

I squeeze my eyes shut, swallowing back the whimper balled in my throat. Instinctively, my hand reaches out—searching. I expect warmth, the steady presence of someone beside me.

I reach for Caleb, but my fingers meet only empty sheets. The absence is a shock, a cruel slap of reality against the remnants of my nightmare. I’m not in that sterile white hellscape, but I’m also not where I thought I was—not where I want to be. 

My apartment in Linkon is quiet, save for the hum of the city outside. There is no steady breathing beside me. No murmured reassurances. No violet eyes watching over me.

I pull my hand back, curling it into a fist against my chest. It was just a dream, I tell myself, just something my brain conjured up from my visit to that place and nothing more. 

Ever since the night I threw myself into Caleb’s arms, he’s been sent on mission after mission, barely stopping to catch his breath. He calls when he can and texts between deployments, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s avoiding me.

I still haven’t confronted him about what I found on his computer, the truth behind his arm, or the ruins of that building and the secrets buried in its ashes. But maybe that’s just as much on me as it is on him. I don’t know how to bring it up, don’t know how to demand answers without fearing what they’ll do to whatever fragile thing is left between us.

More secrets. More deflections. More lies wrapped in careful words and tired smiles. 

I can feel the crack widening, stretching into something vast and uncertain. I don’t know how to stop it before it becomes a chasm too deep to cross.

Dragging my hands through my sweaty hair, I reach for my phone. I know Caleb is on a mission; he might not answer, but I hit call. 

“Pip-squeak? Calling me at this hour? Should I be flattered?”

I let out a short laugh, trying to match his teasing tone. “Oh, obviously. I was just lying here, thinking wow, I really miss being bullied by Caleb. Couldn’t sleep without it.”

His chuckle is warm and easy. “Well, mission accomplished. Consider yourself properly bullied. Now, what’s up? Bored? Lookin’ for trouble?”

I open my mouth to fire back with something witty, but the words don’t come. My throat tightens. I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the phone like a lifeline.

“…Inara?” His voice shifts, playful amusement giving way to attentive concern. “What’s wrong?”

“I—I had a nightmare,” I admit, barely above a whisper. “I don’t know why it got to me so bad, but…” I trail off, swallowing hard.

“Tell me.”

I take a shaky breath. “I was little. In a lab. Everything was white—too white. There were people in coats, and they kept taking me places. Hurting me. Strapping me into a chair and shocking me until—” My voice breaks.

There’s a sharp inhale on the other end of the line, but Caleb doesn’t speak right away.

I press the heel of my palm against my forehead. “And you were there. Not you now. You as a kid. We were together, but they kept separating us. And you were trying to protect me, but you couldn’t. And I—” My breath shudders. “God, Caleb, it felt so real.”

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “There’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re safe.”

“But what if I was? What if it’s real, Caleb? What if it actually happened?”

Silence. Too long. Too telling.

“…It was just a nightmare, Pip.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Then why do you sound like you’re lying?”

His exhale is quiet, borderline pained. “I’m not lyin’,” he assures, but there’s something off about the way he says it.

The crack between us yawns wider, and I wince internally. “Are you coming home soon?” 

“Not sure,” he sighs but doesn’t offer anything further. 

“Just…” I hesitate, not sure what I want to say. Our conversations often go like this lately, like we’ve forgotten how to simply talk to each other. “Come home safe, okay?” 

“I will always come back to you, Inara.”

He sounds so sure, but he’s always been better at pretending than I have. I wish I could throw myself into that certainty and never look back, but there’s still too much I don’t know.

“I’m sorry, I gotta go. Try to get some rest, okay? Goodnight,” he says softly before hanging up.

“Night.” 

I stare at the screen, my fingers still pressed against it as if holding onto him, trying to keep him here for just a little longer.

The dream… It felt so real, but if it actually happened, why can’t I recall anything? Why is it that whenever I try to grasp for it, they dance just out of reach, ebbing like candlelight before the wax runs dry?

Why do I feel like a painter trying to capture mist on canvas, chasing what refuses to be held?

I come back from my morning run, music still blasting in my ears, and I’m lip-syncing the lyrics like I’m auditioning for a reality TV show, stretching my legs before stepping into my apartment.

As soon as I open the door, the scent hits me—a mouthwatering mix of egg tarts, crispy bacon, and something fruity. My stomach growls louder than the music blaring through my earbuds. I peek into the kitchen, and there’s Caleb, grinning like he just pulled off the world’s best prank, a flipper in his hand, and the biggest smirk on his face.

Without thinking, I throw myself at him. He doesn’t flinch, just laughs and wraps his arms around me, steadying me as I crash into him.

“Well, aren’t you a sweaty mess. Did you run through a rainstorm, or is this just… your natural scent?”

I shove him playfully, laughing at myself, though I can feel that slight heat prickle my cheeks. “I just got back from running! You think I’m going to smell like roses after that?”

“You smell like somethin’, that’s for sure.” He lets out a little chuckle and pulls away, slipping the earbuds from my neck and setting them on the counter. “But I guess I’ll overlook it. You’ve earned a free pass.”

“You’re lucky I’m in a good mood,” I tease back, still not quite ready to let go of him, but I pull away. “When did you get back? I thought you were on some big mission?”

His grin widens, and he leans against the counter, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “This mornin’. You sounded like you needed some Caleb time last night, so I ended the mission early.”

I blink at him, genuinely surprised. “You can do that?”

“Pip-squeak,” he drawls lazily, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “I’m the colonel. They can’t even fly without my permission.”

I stare at him for a moment. “You mean you’re like, that important?”

“More important than you realize,” he retorts, flicking my forehead with a playful glint in his eyes. “Now, how about you stop complaining and let me spoil you with some breakfast?”

I let out a dramatic sigh. “Well, you are the colonel.”

“Damn straight,” he grins, scooping a perfectly cooked egg tart from the counter and holding it out to me. “Now eat. Or I’ll force-feed you.”

As I finish chewing on the last bite of my egg tart, Caleb’s voice breaks through my thoughts. He’s stirring something on the stove, but his eyes flick over to me with a mischievous smile.

“I was thinking we could hit the amusement park today,” he says casually, but I can hear the anticipation in his tone. “You know, ride some roller coasters, play the stupid games, the usual.”

It’s always been our thing. Ever since we were kids. When I was sad, when things weren’t going right, Caleb would show up with his signature grin and say, “How about we go on a rollercoaster?” And that was always enough to chase away the storm clouds in my head. We’d get on every ride we could, scream our lungs out, then he’d take me to the game booths.

I remember those huge stuffed animals, the ones I always wanted but could never seem to win. Caleb, though? He’d just casually win them all, using his Evol to nudge the odds in his favour, making sure I got the biggest, fluffiest ones.

“Are you serious? You know I’m in.” I practically leap to my feet, excitement bubbling up. “I’m gonna shower, be right back!”

I can already feel my pulse quickening. The amusement park sounds like the perfect escape, the perfect distraction from everything else.

When I finish drying off, I pull on a pair of dark jeans that hug my legs just right and a soft, white blouse that dips low at the neckline. I line my eyes in a dark charcoal, smudging it out at the corners, apply mascara, and tint my lips a rosy, glossy pink. My hair cascades into soft waves that frame my face.

I try not to think too hard about why I am putting more effort into my makeup than I ever do or why I choose some slightly healed sandals that will not be entirely comfortable for a day walking around an amusement park.

I grab my jacket and head back into the living room, where Caleb waits. He turns as I walk in, eyes catching mine. His gaze softens, and he grins, making no effort to hide the way he takes me in.

“Look at you,” he purrs, voice low and teasing. “You clean up well, pip-squeak.”

I smirk at him, trying to play it cool. “You think so?” I ask, trying to brush off the warm feeling that rises in my chest.

“I know so. At this rate, I will have to beat the men away,” he teases with a wink, clearly appreciating what he’s seeing. “Ready to hit the park? The rollercoasters won’t ride themselves.”

“Let’s go. I’m gonna kick your ass at those games, you know.”

“You sure about that?” he challenges, a sly grin pulling at the corners of his lips. “I’ll just use a little ‘help’ from my Evol, like old times.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help the smile spreading across my face. “You’re going to need all the help you can get, Caleb.”

“Yeah, we’ll see about that,” he teases, grabbing his own jacket as he heads to the door. “Let’s go, it’s time to show you how it’s done.”

The air at the amusement park is warm, the sun high and bright, casting a golden glow over everything. The scent of popcorn and cotton candy floats by, mixing with the sound of distant screams from roller coasters. It feels like a perfect day, the kind where everything else fades into the background and all that matters is right here, right now.

Caleb and I fall into our old rhythm as soon as we step through the gates. The excitement is electric between us, like it always was when we were kids, but now there’s an undercurrent of unprecedented jittery tension.

“Still scared of the Ferris wheel?” Caleb challenges, eyes twinkling with mischief as he smirks at me. “Do you remember the way you used to beg me to take you on it, but as soon as we got to the top, you would grip the bar so hard your knuckles turned white and beg me to use my Evol to steady the rocking of the seat?”

“You rocked it on purpose, Caleb!” I shoot back with a scowl. “The seats literally say ‘do not rock,’ and there you were, rocking it! I thought it would go right around!” 

He laughs, the sound rich and full, and I can’t help but smile. His energy is infectious, the way his confidence radiates, and it draws me in even more than usual.

We start walking toward the first ride, and I feel a tug in my chest, pulling me closer to him. He’s right there, always right there, his presence warm and magnetic. I’m aware of how he moves, the way his hand brushes mine as we walk. Accidental? Maybe, but it sends a shiver through me, a pulse in my core that I try very hard to ignore. 

He steps ahead to grab the tickets, and as he hands them to me, his fingers brush across my palm. The touch is casual, but there’s something about the way it lingers, just a second longer than it should, that makes my heart skip several beats, possibly stop for a moment altogether, before launching into my throat.

“Don’t you dare rock it,” I warn, trying to push away the heat creeping up my neck.

The ride jerks into motion, and we’re lifted into the sky. The world beneath us gets smaller, the park stretching out like a toy landscape. Caleb grins at me, that mischievous glint still in his eyes.

“You’re not scared, are you?” He asks, his voice teasing but gentle.

I roll my eyes, attempting to keep my cool. “I’m not scared.”

He chuckles and leans in, his shoulder brushing against mine, sending a jolt of warmth straight through me that pools and spreads as a pleasant tingle in places I would very much rather it not.

“Let me know if you need me to hold your hand,” he murmurs, his timbre husky and intimate.

I tilt my head to look at him, and the space between us narrows in a way that feels intentional. My breath catches in my throat, and I swallow, trying to steady myself.

“I’m fine,” I manage, my voice a little breathier than I want it to be. 

I try to act unaffected, even as the butterflies in my stomach threaten to take over. We ride in silence for a moment, but I can’t shake the feeling that we’re both acutely aware of the way our shoulders touch, of how close we are, even as the world below continues to spin.

When we finally make it off the ride, Caleb’s hand moves to my waist, his fingers pressing lightly into the fabric of my shirt. It’s a simple gesture, just guiding me through the crowd, but it sends a jolt of heat through my body.

“I’ll protect you from the mascots,” he says with a grin, his hand lingering on my waist a fraction longer than necessary as we pass a rambunctious bear mascot.

“Thanks,” I reply, the words falling out of my mouth a little too softly, a little too breathless.

As we wait in line for the next ride, the sun beating down on us, the energy between us shifts. I can feel Caleb’s presence beside me, his shoulder brushing mine. He moves so naturally, so fluidly, always just a step away, but close enough to make the air between us feel permeated with implicit longing. 

At some point, I lean into him as we stand in line, my cheek lightly grazing his arm. I don’t even think about it. It’s instinctive, like my body just craves the closeness. Caleb doesn’t seem to mind, not in the slightest. His hand finds the small of my back, a subtle touch, just enough to make me feel like I’m completely under his spell.

“You’re not trying to get me to hold your hand again, are you?” He jests, his lips curling into a half-smile as his thumb trails down the back of my hand.

There’s something in his eyes, tender and full of promise, and I feel a shiver run down my spine.

“Maybe,” I admit.

His hand moves to the side of my waist, his thumb brushing the edge of my shirt as he turns slightly toward me and leans in close. “You’re not as subtle as you think, pip-squeak,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear.

I meet his gaze, heart threatening to revolt, and I pray he can’t hear how hard he makes it beat. “Guess I’ll just have to try harder.”

He chuckles, his fingers grazing my waist again. The suspense between us is palpable, electric, as if we’re both walking a line we’re not sure we want to cross, but neither of us is willing to back away. 

For the rest of the day, it’s like this. Every touch, every glance, each teasing word we exchange is fraught with something that feels more and more inevitable by the second.

The day has been nothing short of perfect—full of laughter, teasing, and the kind of closeness that feels just a little too intimate, like we’re hovering on the edge of something we both know we should either step into or pull away from.

As we walk out of the amusement park, the light is fading, and the air has that soft, golden quality of evening settling in. Caleb offers to take me home, his voice casual, but there’s a glint in his eye that feels like he’s just as unwilling to say goodbye as I am.

I hesitate, the words caught in my throat. An unfamiliar ache blooms in my chest. I can feel the heat creeping into my palms, itching with the urge to pull him close and never let go.

“Are you going on another mission after today?” I ask, my voice quieter than I mean it to be, betraying the swell of uncertainty roiling in my stomach.

He glances at me. “Do you want me to?”

“No.” I admit it before I can stop myself, my words coming out a little too quickly, a little too honestly. My fingers twitch, wanting to reach out for him, but I hold back, the hesitation virtually painful. “I don’t want you to.”

His expression seems to fall into a sadness I can’t place, and for a moment, I think I see something flicker in his eyes—like maybe he’s been waiting for me to ask him to stay.

“Then… I won’t,” he agrees, his voice quiet but firm.

I chew on my lip, feeling a little exposed. A hundred thoughts crash through my mind, all tangled up in the mess of my feelings for him. This has always been more than just physical attraction, hasn’t it? The way he’s always been there, the way he knows me better than anyone else. And yet, neither of us has ever fully admitted what this is—what we mean to each other.

“Can I come home with you tonight?” The question comes out soft, unsure, like I’m asking permission to cross a line neither of us has spoken about.

Caleb’s eyes widen for a moment, a flash of surprise passing through them. “You want to come home with me?” His voice is low, as if he’s testing the weight of the question, as if he’s not sure whether it’s something I really mean or just some passing thought.

I nod, feeling the heat flood my cheeks, suddenly self-conscious. “Yeah. I do. If that’s… okay.”

The silence between us stretches, hanging thick in the air. Caleb looks down at me; the teasing smile falls out of place, like he’s considering it, weighing the idea.

“Is this the part where I admit I’d much prefer having you with me tonight than being alone?” he says, the humour in his voice laced with something a little more serious. “Because if so, I guess I’ll admit it. I want you there, too.”

My breath hitches, and I look away for a second, blinking as if that will clear the sudden rush of emotions. His words hang in the air between us, loaded, and for a split second, I wonder if he’s trying to say more than just the surface level.

“Then, let’s go home.” I reply, my voice more steady now, though still tinged with nervous energy. 

The mirage should mean nothing. It should be nothing more than a trick of the mind, an illusion spun by the Wanderer to unsettle me. Yet, it lingers, burrowing into my thoughts like a splinter I can’t dislodge.

I saw Caleb slumped in the cockpit of his plane, his head tilted at an unnatural angle. His flight suit was half unzipped, stained with something dark. Blood soaked into the collar of his undershirt, a stark contrast against the pale fabric. His hands hung limply, barely grasping the controls.

For a breathless moment, I was certain he was dead.

Then the image flickered, like a faulty connection, the lights in the cockpit sputtering in and out. His visor was cracked, and beyond it, the Deepspace Tunnel stretched into an endless abyss, swirling with cold, unnatural light.

At first, I told myself it was nothing—just another of the Wanderer’s illusions, designed to disorient and confuse. It could have been a fabrication, pulled from my own fears, my mind stitching together the details.

But Gideon all but confirmed that Caleb had lied to me. He hadn’t been in some classified training program while he was missing. He had been somewhere else.

A cold chill settles in my bones.

What did I really see out there? An illusion? A hallucination? Or something darker—an echo of the past, trapped in the endless fabric of the Deepspace Tunnel?

There’s only one way to find out.

I stand outside Caleb’s house in Skyhaven. The entrance is sleek, metallic, the security systems embedded into the doorframe. I press my hand to the scanner, feeling the cool glass against my palm. A beat later, the lock disengages with a soft click.

The first time he brought me here, he registered my fingerprint in his security system. He never mentioned it—just guided my hand to the scanner, letting the lock accept me as a resident. A silent gesture of trust.

Now, I’m using it to break into his home.

If he returns early, I’ll claim it’s a surprise visit. It’s a flimsy excuse, but I don’t expect him back yet. He said his mission would take a few days.

I step inside. The house is quiet—not quite sterile, but controlled. Caleb doesn’t leave things lying around. His workspace is always neat, his flight gear carefully stored, his personal effects sparse.

I head straight for his office.

His desk is bare except for his laptop, its sleek black casing nearly blending into the gunmetal-grey table. It’s password-protected, of course, but I anticipated that. I type the first combination that comes to mind—my birthday. He’s used it before, back when we were kids, thinking it clever to ensure I’d always remember his passwords. But the screen flashes red.

Incorrect.

I pause, thinking. Caleb isn’t the type to use something generic. He chooses passwords with meaning—something important, something personal.

Fingers hovering over the keys, I try again. My birthday, but longer this time.

IWillAlwaysComeBackToYou.

The screen blinks, then—access granted. A lump forms in my throat, but I push past it and begin my search.

It’s not easy. He doesn’t make things obvious, and I didn’t expect him to. I sift through folders of flight reports, maintenance logs, and official DAA documentation—things I’m technically not supposed to see—but nothing out of the ordinary.

Then I find a folder labelled Old Memories.

I hesitate, but curiosity wins out. Inside, I find a handful of scanned photos. The first is of the two of us as kids, sitting on Gran’s porch. Caleb grins, his arm around me in a loose headlock, my face scrunched in mock irritation. Gran stands behind us, laughing, her hand resting lightly on my shoulder.

I swallow hard. We were happy. I flip through a few more. Us on our bikes, racing down the street. The summer we built a treehouse. Caleb in his first flight suit, beaming with pride.

The ache in my chest sharpens, but I force myself to move on. The real search continues for what feels like hours. I dig through layers of directories, folders buried within folders, but there’s nothing unusual—no personal logs, no hidden truths.

Until I notice something strange in his storage directory—space occupied by something that doesn’t appear in any visible folder.

It’s hidden.

I pull up the command console and run a search for encrypted files. A few results pop up, but one catches my attention—a string of numbers that doesn’t match the others. I trace the file path, but it’s locked behind another layer of encryption.

I don’t have his decryption key, but I don’t need it. Back at the Academy, I took extra coding courses between my Hunter training. Hacking isn’t my specialty, but I know my way around security protocols.

I work around the lock, exploiting a vulnerability in the file path. It takes longer than I’d like—Caleb’s good, but I’m stubborn.

Eventually, the barrier cracks, and the hidden folder appears.

Inside are video logs.

I double-click the first one, and the screen flickers to life.

Caleb appears in the cockpit of his plane. He looks tired but alert, his hands steady as he adjusts the controls. The timestamp in the corner reads from years ago—during the time he went missing.

“Flight log, day one,” he says. His voice is level, but there’s an undercurrent of tension. “Oxygen levels stable. Backup power at fifty percent. Fuel reserves… low.”

I watch, barely breathing, as he continues listing observations. There’s nothing dramatic yet—he’s just tracking his resources, analyzing the situation. But as I click through the next few logs, things change.

Caleb’s face grows paler. His words slow. The oxygen levels drop, and so does his coherence. The static in the recordings intensifies, warping his voice, distorting the background noise into something almost unnatural.

“No matter what I do,” he murmurs in one log, his head lolling slightly. “It always ends in death.”

I stiffen. Deaths? Who is he talking about?

Another log. His breathing is laboured, his lips faintly blue.

“Rescue… would put too many in danger,” he gasps, barely above a whisper. “Can’t… let them come after me.”

My stomach twists as I watch him reach out—his movements sluggish—as he presses something off-screen.

“Disabling distress beacon.”

The realization crashes over me. He turned it off. On purpose.

He was lost. He was dying. And he didn’t want anyone to come for him.

I clutch the edge of the desk, my nails digging into it.

Another file catches my eye—one final video log. I don’t think I’m ready for what I’m about to see.

The screen flickers, static worse than before, warping the video with jumps and glitches. But Caleb is still there, slumped in the cockpit, his flight suit hanging loose around his frame. His skin is grey, lips cracked, and his breaths shallow and uneven.

But his eyes—his eyes are clear.

“Pip-squeak,” he says, his voice rough but steady. He holds the necklace I gave him in his clenched fist, like a lifeline. “I’m sorry I broke my promise.”

My breath catches in my throat.

“I don’t think I am going to make it home to you this time.”

I shake my head before I even realize I’m doing it. No.

“You were always the light in my life, you know that?” His lips twitch, like he wants to smile but doesn’t have the strength. “Always pullin’ me back. Givin’ me direction. Keepin’ me grounded… but I guess even you can’t pull me back from this one.”

The static worsens, swallowing parts of his words. His blinks grow slower, his head dipping forward before he forces it back up.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Our souls will always find each other.”

Tears spill down my cheeks. No, Caleb. No, it’s not okay.

His fingers twitch weakly on the console. He exhales, long and shaky, eyes unfocused now. “My only regret is that I didn’t tell… you… tell…”

The words trail off. His eyelids flutter.

Then—nothing.

The screen freezes on his face, mouth parted, eyes half-lidded, as if he’s already gone.

“No,” I choke out. My fingers twitch toward the screen, as if I could reach through and pull the words out of him, drag him back from the edge of unconsciousness.

The video ends, and a broken sound escapes my throat. I’m crying, sobbing, my whole body shaking as I press my hand to my mouth to stifle it. I can’t stop the flood of grief, horror, and helplessness as the weight of what I just watched crashes over me.

I force my hands to move, though they tremble so badly it takes three tries to clear my search history. I wipe every trace of my presence from Caleb’s system, backtrack through folders, close out every open file. My fingers hesitate over the final window—the last frozen frame of him, pale and barely conscious—but I close that too.

My breath shudders out of me. I stand, but my knees wobble. The weight of what I’ve seen, of what I know now, slams into me with a force that nearly knocks me down. I try to take a step, to force myself to leave, but the floor tilts beneath me, and my legs give out.

I collapse against the wall. My back hits the cool surface, and then I’m sliding down, my hands gripping my arms as though I can hold myself together.

But I can’t.

The grief shatters inside me.

A ragged, keening sound rips from my throat, and then I’m sobbing, curling in on myself in the dark, empty house above the clouds. The weight of it is unbearable—the knowledge that Caleb was dying, alone and hopeless, and he never told me. That I could have gone my whole life not knowing, could have gone on believing his lies about “special training” while he’d been suffocating in the dark.

How could he keep this from me?

I press my forehead against my drawn-up knees, my body wracked with quiet, uncontrollable sobs. Time drags on, the lights outside shifting from twilight to full night, but I don’t move.

It’s only when the grief dulls enough to leave me hollow that I force myself to stand. My body feels too heavy, too weak, but I push myself forward on sheer instinct alone, wandering toward Caleb’s bedroom.

I don’t know why I go there. Maybe because it’s the closest thing I have to him right now.

The door creaks open, and the darkness inside is quiet. Safe. I step in, and the scent of him wraps around me—clean linen, faint hints of engine oil, the sharp note of wind after a storm. It’s enough to bring another wave of tears to my eyes.

I crawl into his side of the bed.

The sheets are cool, but the pillows still smell like him, and for a fleeting moment, it feels like he’s here, like I could roll over and find him beside me.

Did I ever truly know him? I thought we told each other everything back then. That the secrets we keep from each other now—the things we can’t say—were new, a product of the Fleet, of whatever he’s gotten himself wrapped up in.

But maybe Caleb has been keeping secrets from me all along.

The thought twists something deep in my chest, and before I can stop myself, fresh tears spill down my cheeks. I grip his pillow tightly, pressing my face against it, and cry myself into a restless, aching sleep.

The sudden clatter jolts me awake, so violently that for a moment, I lose all sense of where I am. My pulse thunders in my throat as I sit up, heart hammering against my ribs. Caleb shouldn’t be home this early. And thieves? Unlikely. This house is too remote, too secure, perched above the clouds where no one should even know it exists.

I slip out of bed, moving on pure instinct. I know exactly where Caleb hides a spare weapon—mounted beneath the bedframe, just within reach. My fingers brush the cool metal, locate the grip, and pull it free. It’s heavier than I expect, well-maintained. I check the magazine. Fully loaded.

With slow, measured steps, I make my way to the door. Each footfall is deliberate, making no sound as I scan the rooms on my way out. The house is dim, bathed in shifting light, but I stay in the shadows, gun raised, ready for—

Then, I reach the living room, and my breath falters. Caleb’s Fleet uniform is crumpled on the floor, discarded in a manner so uncharacteristic of him it immediately sets me on edge. My gaze flicks to the floor, and my stomach drops—bloodied footprints lead away, dark smudges staining the carpet.

Adrenaline surges, sharp and sudden. I scan the room. The pantry is open—no, it’s been moved, displaced, revealing a sleek, glossy panel I’ve never seen before. It’s ajar.

A hidden room.

I grip the gun tighter and move toward it, every step controlled despite the pounding in my chest.

The second I step inside, I freeze.

The room is dimly lit, the glow of multiple interfaces casting strange shadows across the walls. Machinery hums softly in the background, and the faint smell of antiseptic and burnt metal lingers in the air. It looks just like the hidden room in his office.

Caleb sits on a hospital-like gurney, shirtless, hunched slightly forward. His back is to me. He hasn’t noticed me yet. Blood streaks his skin, sluggish and dark, but that’s not what steals my breath away.

It’s his arm.

Where flesh and bone should be, there is instead a sleek, black metal limb, veins of red current slithering up and down it like living tendrils. Blue sparks flicker from damaged sections, sizzling against his skin.

I can’t move. I can’t breathe.

He reaches for a device beside him, plugging it into the prosthetic. A screen flickers to life, a digital interface blooming before him. His fingers tap the keys with stiff, pained motions, his jaw clenched.

I don’t even realize my grip on the gun has loosened until it slips from my fingers. It clatters loudly to the floor.

Caleb whirls around.

His eyes widen when he sees me. “Don’t come any closer.”

I don’t listen. Of course, I don’t.

I take quick, determined steps toward him, but my heart beats too loudly, too erratically. Fresh tears prick at the back of my eyes, a tightness in my throat that I can’t swallow down. My trembling hands hover over the cold, sleek surface of the metal arm, still so jarring to see it attached to him. Before I can touch it, though, his free hand catches my wrist, pulling it away gently but firmly.

“Will you ever listen to my orders?” He asks, his voice rough, but there’s something bitter in the words, a trace of half-hearted humour.

I shake my head, blinking back tears.

“I didn’t mean to hide it from you,” he says quietly, and for the first time, there’s something raw in his voice. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

My pulse pounds in my ears. I swallow hard, fighting to steady my breath, to keep my voice even. “Caleb, what happened?”

He leans back, wincing slightly, giving me that tired look I know so well. “Caught some trouble in the Deepspace Tunnel,” he mutters, as if it’s nothing more than a minor inconvenience—like he’s not bleeding all over the floor.

I stare at him, at the gruesome, fresh wounds across his chest, stomach, and back. They look like something had scraped him—like bullets had grazed him. His entire body is drenched in blood.

I bite my lip, struggling to suppress the panic rising within me. “I’ll be right back,” I murmur, turning on my heel and racing down the hall to grab his medkits.

I return moments later, antiseptic and bandages already in hand. I set everything down, not stopping to think—just acting, moving quickly, almost mechanically. My hands glide over his body with practiced ease as I try to focus on the task at hand. Focus. I need to focus on fixing him, or I’ll lose control.

But it’s hard not to glance back at that arm—the metal that feels so foreign, yet so undeniably a part of him now. Questions flood my mind. Is this part of the modifications the Fleet officers feared? The anger rises, sharp and cold, but I lock it down.

I apply antiseptic with more force than necessary, flinching at the small hiss of pain that escapes him when I clean a particularly deep wound. He doesn’t seem to care, though. I can’t tell if he’s in shock or if he’s simply learned to endure the pain.

The hum of the computer breaks my concentration. A soft chime signals that the repairs are complete. Caleb unhooks the wires from his arm, flexing the metal digits absently. The whole thing moves fluidly, almost too naturally, as if it were always meant to be there.

“Does it hurt?” I ask, my voice softer than I intended.

“No,” he replies, shaking his head lightly, almost trying to convince both of us. “Only when it’s being repaired.”

I don’t reply. I simply watch as his hands trace the prosthetic, running his fingers along the surface. Without thinking, I reach out, tracing my own fingers over the glassy obsidian metal, from his forearm down to his fingers. The smoothness feels too artificial. My touch lingers just a moment longer than it should. When I reach his hand, Caleb’s fingers close around mine.

The sadness in his eyes hits me like a punch to the gut.

“What is it?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper, though I already know it’s something bad.

“I can’t feel you anymore, pip-squeak,” he says, and for a split second, I almost think he might cry. His voice cracks, and I see something break inside him. But he shakes his head, brushing it away.

His other hand rises, brushing against mine, as if trying to remind himself what my skin feels like—like he’s lost something he didn’t know he had until it was gone.

“Who did this to you, Caleb?” My voice breaks as the anger finally erupts, a tidal wave I can no longer hold back. I snap, my fists clenching at my sides. “Was it the fucking Fleet? I will kill them all!”

The words spill from me before I can stop them, a raw promise—one I’ll make good on if I ever discover they’re the ones responsible. I want to tear the universe apart for him. I want to hunt down every one of them and make them pay.

Caleb stares at me, his gaze unwavering, though there’s a flicker of something deeper in his eyes—something dark, heavy. He doesn’t speak right away, offering no comfort or reassurance, just staring back at me.

I want to scream. I want to punch something. But all I can do is stand there, trembling in the silence between us.

“I should ask why you’re here,” Caleb smirks, his voice rougher than usual, but there’s that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes. “But I have a feelin’ I’m not going to like the answer.”

The smirk doesn’t even register in my mind. My anger is still raw, an open wound that hasn’t even begun to heal. I stalk toward him—well, limp more like, since my ankle is still messed up—but I push through it. Every step brings a sharp throb of pain, but it’s nothing compared to what he’s enduring.

Without a second thought, I grab Caleb’s gun from where I’d dropped it earlier. It’s cold and heavy in my hand. When I wrap my fingers around it, the weight makes everything feel more real. The sight of it makes my pulse spike, my thoughts narrowing to one thing.

“Point me in the direction of who I have to kill, Caleb.” My voice is colder than I meant, almost detached. But it’s not a threat—it’s a promise. I don’t care who they are or why they did this. Whoever’s responsible is going to pay. They’re going to suffer for what they’ve done to him.

Caleb’s expression shifts just enough for me to see the faintest flicker of concern. He slowly, very slowly, reaches out, placing his good hand on the gun, attempting to ease it out of my grip.

“Don’t,” he says quietly, his voice strained. It’s not a command, not really. It’s a warning, a plea. I hear it in his voice.

His touch is gentle, but there’s no stopping me now.

“I’m not going to let them get away with this,” I snap, my grip tightening, a fierce purpose rising in my chest. Every part of me screams for vengeance, for justice—for him. I can’t just stand here, helpless, not after what I’ve seen. “You think they can hurt you and get away with it? Not on my watch.”

Caleb’s eyes darken, his lips pressed tightly together as his expression hardens. But there’s something in his gaze that stops me cold. It’s not fear—it’s something far deeper.

“Pip-squeak,” he says softly, his words like a balm to the fury burning inside me. But I don’t want to hear it. Not now. “I’ll handle this. I don’t need you to—”

I cut him off, jerking the gun away from him. “You don’t get to handle this alone, Caleb. Not this time.”

His eyes soften, just for a moment, but the weight of the situation presses down on both of us. His metal arm twitches occasionally, the artificial limb adjusting to his body. It’s wrong. It’s unnatural. And I won’t let him face this alone, no matter how hard he tries to push me away.

I take a deep breath, my chest tight. For a moment, we stand there, the air thick with tension. But I don’t lower the gun.

“I’ll make them all regret it, I swear.” I murmur, almost to myself.

Caleb doesn’t speak again. He just watches me, his eyes—haunted, full of secrets, weighed down with sorrow I can’t even begin to comprehend.

I turn on my heel, trying to walk away, to shake off the fire burning in my chest. But before I can take another step, I feel the press of his chest against my back, his arm wrapping around my shoulders, pulling me into him, halting me mid-step.

“Please, don’t do this,” he begs, his voice cracking in a way that tells me he isn’t just asking—he’s pleading. “Don’t put yourself in danger for me. It hurts more than anything else, pip-squeak. Please.”

His breath warms my ear, and his fingers tighten around my skin. The weight of his body against mine, the softness in his tone—it shatters me. I pull away, stumbling back, my chest heaving as I retreat into the living room. The tension in the room is suffocating, and panic rises in my throat. I scream—a raw, desperate sound, a mixture of frustration and fear.

Fear of what’s already been taken from him. Fear that I’ll lose him—piece by piece—until only a hollow shell of the person he once was remains.

And deeper still, there’s a gnawing dread I can’t escape: the fear of what I feel for him. It’s undeniable and impossible to ignore. I’ve tried to bury it, to convince myself it’s nothing, but it’s here now, exposed for what it is.

But Caleb isn’t Caleb anymore. The boy who cared for me, who cooked for me, who made me laugh and wiped away my tears—he’s gone. The man before me is a stranger, wearing his familiar face.

He still has those little quirks—the way his fingers run through his hair when he’s frustrated, the deep laugh that always made me feel at home—but the secrets, the lies, have changed him.

I should be angry with him. I should hate him for disappearing without a word, for returning as a Fleet colonel with that cold, calculating edge I never saw in him before. I should despise him for keeping me in the dark, for becoming someone I no longer fully recognize.

But I don’t.

I want him.

I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anything. These feelings have always lingered beneath the surface, but now they’re undeniable.

And I’m terrified. Terrified of everything that’s changed, of the darkness I don’t understand, of the man he’s become. I’m scared of how little I know him now.

There’s a part of me that wishes I could shut these feelings off—pretend everything’s fine, pretend I’m fine, pretend I’m not in love with him. But I can’t. No matter how hard I try, the truth remains.

I want to be the one he turns to—the one who understands him better than anyone else, the one who’s always there, the one who offers comfort when the world feels too heavy. I want to be the keeper of his secrets, not the one left in the dark.

But I’m not sure I can be that person—not when the distance between us feels so vast, when the weight of his silence threatens to pull us further apart.

Still, when I look at him—really look at him—my heart stutters. Despite all the secrecy, all the distance, I can still see traces of the boy I once knew. He’s still there, buried beneath the layers of change. And that boy? He needs me.

And, as terrifying as it is, I realize now that maybe, just maybe, I need him too.

I want to feel his arms around me, to feel like I’m his—even if it’s only for a fleeting moment. I’m not sure I’m ready for the consequences. I’m not sure I can bear the weight of the truth that lies between us.

I take a breath, close my eyes for a moment, and then I go. It’s reckless. It’s impulsive. It’s everything I promised myself I wouldn’t do. But when I throw myself into his arms, legs wrapping around his waist, I don’t regret it.

“Hold me, Caleb,” I whisper into his skin, my voice trembling. Somehow, that simple phrase—those words—mean more to me than I ever thought they could. “Hold me tight and never let me go, okay?”

For a moment, surprise flickers in his eyes, as if he didn’t expect me to need him this way. But then his arms are around me—strong, steady—pulling me in closer. He presses his cheek to mine, and I shudder at the touch.

His arms tighten around me until I can hardly breathe, but it’s the best feeling I’ve ever known. It’s wrong, but it feels so right. For the first time in so long, I feel like we’re not slipping away from each other.

“I won’t let you go,” he murmurs into my hair, his voice thick with emotion. “I promise, Inara. I won’t ever let you go.”

I cling to him even tighter, the tears still falling freely. I don’t have the words for this. I don’t know what we are, what any of this means, but in his arms, I feel safe.

The golden crown of dawn is just cresting over the horizon when I finally make it home. My body aches, and I clutch at my bruised ribs, discarding my backpack on the floor as the door to my apartment clicks closed. I take a moment, leaning on the door and rubbing my tired eyes.

A floorboard creaks. Instinct jolts through me, and my gun is in my hand before thought catches up, finger poised on the trigger.

Caleb glares at me from my dim living room, his violet eyes gleaming in the half-light like a sky caught between night and morning—too dark to be safe, too bright to be ignored.

His uniform is still crisp, except for the cap tossed carelessly onto my couch, and his hair is mussed, strands sticking up at odd angles, the telltale sign of fingers raking through it one too many times.

“What the fuck, Caleb!” I bark, shoving my gun back into its holster, half-irritated, half-shocked. “I could have shot you!”

“Where have you been?” His voice drops, deep and gruff, the kind of tone that sends a warning straight through my bones.

Fuck.

My heart stumbles, slamming against my bruised ribs as it sinks deep into my stomach. I can’t tell him the truth. If he knows I’m looking for answers, he will try to stop me.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’s kept me locked up in Skyhaven under the pretence of keeping me safe. But I can’t exactly say I was just out for a casual stroll, either. Not with my clothes ripped, bloodied, and reeking of smoke.

“I was on a mission,” I lie.

“Bullshit,” he growls, flicking on the light.

The sudden brightness stabs at my eyes, and before I can protest, he’s on me. Not in an attacking way—more like a storm closing in. His hand catches my wrist, turning it palm-up, exposing the bruises, the raw scrapes from crawling through debris. His jaw clenches, his fingers tightening just enough to make a point.

“I called your captain directly. She confirmed you didn’t have any assignments. So, I’ll ask you again—where have you been?”

“Out,” I snap, yanking my hand free.

I step around him, needing space and air. Pain lances up my leg, my ankle rolls, and the floor rushes up to meet me. I barely have time to swear before Caleb catches me, arms locking around my waist.

“You’re hurt.” The sharp edge of his frustration softens, shadows retreating from his expression.

In one smooth motion, he scoops me up like I weigh nothing. My arms snap around his neck on reflex. My body presses flush against his, warm and solid and—

Oh.

Oh no.

This isn’t new. Caleb has carried me more times than I can count. Across playgrounds, through burning wreckage, out of so many bad decisions. This is basically standard procedure, so why is my brain sparking like a half-plugged-in appliance?

Why am I suddenly hyper-aware of the way his arms tighten around me, the way his body heat seeps into my skin, and the way his heartbeat thrums steady and strong against my side?

This is fine. This is normal. This is—

“Are you blushin’?”

“No,” I snap.

He smirks. Smug bastard. Mercifully, he deposits me onto the kitchen counter before I can combust, stepping between my knees with the kind of effortless confidence that should not be affecting me right now. His hands move to my boots, unlacing them with that same infuriating efficiency he applies to everything.

“I can do that myself,” I grumble.

“You’re injured,” he counters, not even looking up. “And, evidently, prone to bad decisions.”

“You’re a bad decision,” I mutter under my breath.

He makes a low, amused sound. “Funny. You were saying somethin’ different last time you got drunk.”

I groan, raking my hands down my face. I should be more concerned about the whole interrogation thing. About the fact that he knows I’m hiding something. But all I can focus on is how my pulse refuses to settle.

I am developing a certifiable problem.

The second my boot comes off, his breath audibly stalls. The bruising is already creeping up my ankle, deepening into ugly shades of violet and blue. Swelling distorts the shape, stretching the skin taut.

Caleb’s jaw flexes, his expression carved from stone. He tugs his gloves off, tossing them onto the counter without care, then presses two fingers against the worst of the swelling, feather-light but firm enough to test the damage.

I hiss through my teeth.

He makes a displeased tsk. “This is not fine.”

I could argue. Instead, I stare at his eyes. They shift like a spinning galaxy—violet with threads of pink and orange, a nebula caught in motion. The kind of colours that belong to the liminal space between day and night, between stars collapsing and new ones being born.

He’s too close. Or not close enough.

Damnit, Inara!

I can feel the heat radiating off of him, the weight of his focus pressing down on me. His hands are on me, and I should not be noticing how broad they are, how they completely engulf my ankle, or how his touch—despite the pain—is careful.

Stars help me.

“You have a first aid kit?” Caleb asks, voice still tight.

“Bathroom,” I say, forcing the words out past the spiralling mess in my head. “Cabinet under the sink.”

He nods, grabbing my discarded boot as he goes. His movements are mechanical, like he needs to be doing something with his hands before he puts them through a wall.

I let out a slow breath, watching as he disappears down the hall. The moment he’s gone, I press my palms into my thighs, squeezing tight. Get a fucking grip.

Caleb returns a moment later, first aid kit in one hand, my boot in the other. He tosses the boot unceremoniously to the side, pops open the kit and pulls out the bandages.

“I have been callin’ you for hours,” he declares with a voice like flint striking steel. “Why didn’t you answer your damn phone?”

I reach into my jacket pocket and yank out my phone. The screen is completely wrecked, spiderwebbed with cracks, the device itself dark and lifeless. I toss it onto the counter beside me with a dull clatter.

“I dropped it,” I say flatly.

Caleb’s gaze flicks between me and the phone, a muscle in his jaw ticking. He exhales sharply through his nose, fingers tightening around the roll of bandages.

“Right,” he sneers, voice edged. “Just dropped it.”

I shrug.

He shakes his head as he starts wrapping my ankle. His touch is gentle, but there’s tension in his movements, a barely-contained frustration simmering beneath the surface.

“What the hell were you actually doing, Inara?” he demands.

I tilt my head. “Out.”

“Out where?”

I smirk. “Out out.”

His eyes narrow. “Pip-squeak—”

“That’s me.”

Caleb exhales through gritted teeth. “Inara—”

“Caleb,” I mimic, saccharine as syrup.

His fingers flex against my ankle, and I know I’m pushing him, but I don’t care. The more I keep him chasing circles, the less chance he has of backing me into a corner. I flash him a quick grin. He scowls, tugging the bandage a little tighter than necessary.

I hiss. “Sadist.”

“Brat,” he shoots back.

His lips press into a thin line, but the corners twitch—just slightly. If I didn’t know him as well as I do, I wouldn’t have noticed. Unfortunately for him, I do know him, and I know I’m winning.

Uh, for now.

Caleb doesn’t say anything for a long moment. He continues wrapping my ankle with that same sharp, controlled focus, like if he lets himself think too hard, he’ll lose whatever grip he has left on his temper.

I, however, positively thrive on pushing buttons.

“You know, if you wanted an excuse to hold my foot, you could have just asked,” I tease.

He doesn’t even blink. “I will break your other ankle.”

I let out a dramatic gasp. “Violence? Against your poor, injured best friend?”

He secures the bandage with a final, slightly aggressive tug and glares up at me. “Now you’re my best friend?”

I raise an eyebrow. “I wasn’t?”

“Hard to say. Best friends don’t make each other hunt them down for hours and find them half-dead.”

“Please. I’m not half-dead.”

He lifts a finger and flicks my bruised ribs.

Pain explodes through my side, and I nearly double over. “Caleb!” I wheeze, clutching my ribs. “You ass—”

He doesn’t look remotely sorry. “Half-dead,” he repeats. “Try again.”

I groan, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. “You are the worst.”

“Yep. And I’m not done with you.”

I peek at him through my fingers. “Figured.”

He crosses his arms, eyes cutting into me. “You’re still avoiding my questions.”

I give him my best, most innocent smile. “Am I?”

He exhales sharply and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I swear to God, I have never wanted to strangle someone more in my life.”

I grin. “That’s the spirit.”

“Not a compliment,” he grumbles.

I shrug. “Sounds like one.”

He presses his hands to his temples, muttering under his breath—probably counting to ten, praying for patience, resisting the urge to shake me.

Finally, he sighs. “Fine. If you’re not gonna tell me, then at least tell me—are you done with whatever this is?”

I hesitate for just a fraction of a second, but Caleb sees it. His entire stance shifts, tension rolling back over him. His eyes darken, the swirling colours of his irises dimming, sharpening into something dangerous.

I hate how easily he can read me. How effortlessly he can pick me apart, see through my bullshit, and strip me down to the truth even when I don’t say anything.

I swallow. Force a smirk. “I’m always up to something,” I say lightly.

Caleb doesn’t smile.

Doesn’t move.

Just watches me.

Like he’s already figured out the answer, and he’s already planning how to stop me.

He leans against the counter beside me, arms crossed, and tilts his head just so, that signature smirk playing at his lips.

“You know,” he muses, voice utterly casual, “I couldn’t help but notice you left somethin’ interesting in the bathroom.”

I can feel the blood leave my face. “What.”

His smirk widens. “I mean, really interesting. Didn’t know you were into that sort of thing.”

Oh, God. Fuck. Shit. My stomach drops straight through the floor. I rack my brain, scrambling through the contents of my bathroom. I don’t leave anything weird in there—do I? Do I?

I don’t get a chance to think too hard about it. My body moves on instinct, panic taking over, and I launch myself off the counter.

Or—I try to.

Caleb catches me immediately, both hands gripping my waist as I nearly topple straight into him. He chuckles, deep and smug. “Relax, pip-squeak. I’m kiddin’.”

My face ignites with heat. I scowl and swat at his chest, but I can still feel his laughter rumbling under my palm.

His grin is downright insufferable. “Payback’s a bitch, huh?”

I huff and cross my arms, looking anywhere but at him. My traitorous heart is still hammering from that split second of terror, my stomach definitely not flipping from how close we are. 

Nope. Not at all.

He lets go of my waist, unfastens his long coat, and shrugs it off, tossing it onto the counter. Then, he rolls up his sleeves. “C’mon. Let’s wash your hair before you pass out on me.”

I blink. “Uh. What?”

He jerks his chin toward my tangled, blood-matted hair. “You’re not plannin’ to go to bed like that. Are you?”

I gape at him. “I can wash my own hair, you know.”

He arches an eyebrow. “Yeah? With your ribs like that? Your ankle?”

I shut my mouth. He smirks, triumphant, and reaches out—before plucking a crumpled leaf from my hair and flicking it aside.

I groan. “For fuck’s sake—”

“Yep. Exactly what I thought,” he says breezily. “Now, are we doin’ this the easy way, or do I have to drag you to the bathroom?”

I consider my options. One, fight him on this, lose, and waste energy I really don’t have. Two, accept that he’s a stubborn bastard who won’t let me get away with anything.

I exhale sharply. “Fine.”

Caleb helps me off the counter, his arm slipping securely around my waist as I lean into him. I have to focus intensely on not noticing how gloriously solid he is under my hands.

We make it to the bathroom, and before I know it, I’m perched on the edge of the tub, Caleb crouched beside me.

He used to wash my hair all the time when we were kids—mostly after I got into fights, scraped myself up, and tried to avoid dealing with it. Back then, it was nothing.

So why, exactly, does it feel entirely different now?

One hand braces my back as the other takes the detachable showerhead. The first stream of warm water rushes over my scalp, and I shudder.

His hand presses a little firmer against my back, steadying me. “Too hot?”

“No,” I murmur, closing my eyes. “It’s fine.”

It’s too fine.

His fingers slide through my hair, gently working through the worst of the tangles before he reaches for the shampoo. He’s always been careful, but this is careful in a way that makes my stomach do weird things and an annoying ache to settle where it really should not be. 

I squeeze my thighs together and try to think of anything else. War strategies. Battle formations. The time I saw a grown man get his foot stuck in a storm drain—

Caleb’s fingers massage my scalp, and every thought in my head disperses instantaneously. I definitely don’t grip onto his shirt.

Yes, I do.

His breath ghosts against my neck. “You good?”

“Yeah,” I confirm, my voice way too high-pitched. I clear my throat. “I mean—yeah. Totally fine.”

I feel him smirk, like he knows what he’s doing to me. By the time he’s rinsing the conditioner out, my thoughts are a tangled mess, my heart an absolute traitor.

This isn’t weird, right? 

When he helps me sit up, his hands firm on my waist, his breath warm on my shoulder—

I think I might be fucked.

Caleb rubs the towel over my head like he’s trying to buff the water out of my skull.

“Ow. Do you mind?”

“Not really,” he says cheerfully, switching tactics to be slightly less aggressive.

I huff, arms crossed, as he continues. “This is unnecessary.”

Caleb hums noncommittally, like he’s pretending to listen, and keeps drying my hair. When he finally deems it passable, he picks up my hairbrush from the counter and starts brushing it.

I turn to scowl at him. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

He smirks. “Maybe a little.”

“I hate you.”

“I think you mean, thank you, Caleb,” he corrects, mimicking my voice. “Now sit still, pip-squeak.”

I grumble under my breath as he gently works through the worst of the tangles. Then, he starts braiding my hair.

“Okay, no,” I protest, trying to twist away. “Absolutely not.”

He tightens his hold on the braid, keeping me still. “Oh, come on. You used to beg me to do this when we were kids.”

“That was different,” I argue. “I was, like, ten.”

“And?” He ties off the end with a hairband he must have stolen from my counter. “It’s practical.”

I’m too exhausted to fight him on it, so I just curse to myself as he leaves me to change. Which should be easy. It’s just clothes. Normally, I’d throw on a T-shirt and underwear and call it a night. But Caleb is here. I stare into my dresser like it holds the secrets of the universe.

Pajama pants with little unicorns all over them? Absolutely not. I don’t need him mocking me for the next ten years.

Shorts? Too short.

Sweatpants? Too sweaty.

I go through my entire wardrobe, tossing clothes left and right, spiralling into the dumbest crisis of my life to date.

Caleb knocks on the door. “You need help in there?”

I freeze. “NO.”

Silence. Then, “…Okay?”

Eventually, I settle on an oversized shirt that drops past my thighs and the shorts I discarded earlier.

And then. Then.

The bra problem. I stare at myself in the mirror, jaw clenched. Sleeping in a bra is awful. But if I take it off—will he notice? Would he even care?

I scowl at my reflection. “What is wrong with you?” I growl, but that doesn’t stop me from standing there, overthinking way too hard about something that should be simple. Eventually, I yank it off and throw it across the room. 

Screw it.

I limp out of my room, trying to act normal. Caleb arches an eyebrow but—thankfully—doesn’t comment. He helps me to bed, grabbing extra pillows and carefully propping up my ankle. The second my head hits the pillow, my body betrays me. I can barely keep my eyes open.

Caleb chuckles softly. “You’re dead on your feet, pip-squeak.”

“M’not,” I mumble into the blanket.

His fingers brush against my forehead. “Get some sleep.”

I barely register it before I’m gone.

I wake up to the midday sun cutting through the curtains, painting golden lines across my blanket. I blink blearily at the clock on my bedside table. 1:07 PM.

Groaning, I shove the blanket off and attempt to sit up. My body protests immediately, stiff and sore from yesterday’s disaster. But it’s my ankle that really makes its presence known. The moment I try to put weight on it, pain shoots up my leg like a live wire.

“Shit,” I hiss, immediately shifting my weight onto my good leg.

Caleb is nowhere to be seen. There’s no note, no message, nothing.

I hobble toward the kitchen and scavenge the fridge for anything remotely edible. I settle on a leftover sandwich from god knows when and shove it into my mouth while making coffee because I absolutely need coffee before I attempt any kind of thinking.

Once my mug is in hand, I limp over to my bag, rummage through it, and pull out the diagram. The paper is a mess. Torn in a few places, some edges scorched, and there are dark smears—blood, probably—along one side, but it’s mostly intact.

I spread it out on my coffee table, smoothing the wrinkles as best I can.

It looks like an anatomical diagram, the kind you’d see in a medical textbook. The body is divided into sections, limbs marked with different colours—blue for the arms, hands, and feet. Orange for the legs. Red for the lungs and eyes.

Handwritten notes litter the page in cramped, messy script. Some are half-faded, smudged, or written so erratically they barely look like words. I squint, trying to make sense of them.

“Connection unstable—test phase delayed”

“Regeneration rates inconsistent—unknown factors?”

“Nerve integration successful in some subjects—rejection in others”

“Conscious recalibration—sensory interference noted. Next steps: remove—”

The rest of that sentence trails into a smudge. It must mean something. I just don’t know what yet. The moment I hear the beep outside my door, my stomach plummets. 

Shit. 

I scramble, shoving the diagram under the couch as fast as my injured ankle will allow. It crumples slightly, but I don’t have time to worry about that. 

Just as the lock clicks, I throw myself into what I can only assume is the most unnatural, casual pose ever attempted. One hand props up my head, elbow bent at an awkward angle, while my other arm drapes across my knee. I stretch my lips into what I hope is a relaxed smile.

Caleb steps inside, carrying a takeout bag in one hand and a shopping bag in the other. He barely glances at me before shutting the door with his foot. Then, after a beat, his head tilts, violet eyes narrowing. "What—what are you doin’?”

"Sitting." My voice comes out weirdly high-pitched. I clear my throat and nod, as if that will make me sound more convincing. "Just… sitting. On the floor. As one does."

His lips twitch. I see it—the restrained smirk, the amusement dancing in his eyes like he’s already rehearsing a dozen ways to mock me. "Uh-huh. Well, enjoy that."

He strides past me, drops the takeout bag on the coffee table, and then crouches to hand me the shopping bag. I grab it, a little too eager for the distraction. My fingers curl around a sleek box, and as I pull it out, I realize what it is.

A new phone. 

"You—?"

"You needed a new one," Caleb declares simply, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. "So, here."

I stare at the box, then at him. Then back at the box. My heart does some strange manoeuvre in my chest, an almost imperceptible stutter, and I internally tell it to shut up. This isn’t a big deal. He’s just being practical. It’s not like he—

I shake my head, cutting off the thought before it can finish. 

“Thank you, but you didn’t have to do this," I say, turning the box over in my hands. "I could’ve gotten one myself."

"Yeah? When?" Caleb leans back, arms crossing over his chest. "You were just gonna hobble your way to the store? Maybe crawl there on your hands and knees?"

I scowl and open the box with a little more force than necessary. It’s a really nice phone. Better than the one I had before. Which makes it harder to say anything snarky about it.

Caleb settles in, digging into his food like this is just another normal day, like my stomach isn’t doing flips and my hands aren’t suddenly too warm holding this stupid phone. I try to focus on the takeout, but my brain won’t stop its nattering.

Why does everything feel different now? Why is he so annoyingly casual while I’m over here malfunctioning like a broken android? I just need to act normal. Be normal.

…Whatever the hell that means right now.

Caleb sits on the couch, tossing one arm over the backrest as he watches me with a raised brow. "So, what was that little pose about? Tryin’ to impress me? Because I have to say, sitting on the floor like a weirdo isn't your most flatterin’ angle."

I scowl at him, crossing my arms. "I was stretching."

"Stretching," he repeats, voice flat. "With a sprained ankle?"

"Yes."

His lips twitch, and I know he's trying not to laugh at me. I busy myself with unwrapping the food he brought because if there's one thing I can count on, it's that stuffing my mouth will prevent me from saying anything idiotic.

For a few minutes, it's easy, the same back-and-forth we've always had. Caleb teases, I deflect, he smirks, I roll my eyes. It's comfortable.

But then his expression shifts. The humour drains from his features, and he rubs the back of his neck, eyes dropping to the floor. “Listen. About before. When you found that room. I— I lost my temper. I shouldn't have reacted like that. Did I hurt you?”

I swallow my bite, setting the food aside. “You scared me," I admit. ”But I'm fine. You didn’t hurt me."

His jaw flexes, and he exhales slowly. "Still. I shouldn't have—"

"Caleb," I interrupt, giving him a pointed look. "It's done. Just... don’t do it again."

His violet eyes flit to mine, searching, before he gives a small nod. A muscle still tics in his cheek, but he lets it drop.

I lean back on my palms, watching him carefully. "Are you going to tell me what that room is now?"

His gaze sharpens. "Are you going to tell me what you were doin’ that got you hurt?"

I tense. So does he.

A stalemate.

My fingers curl against the floor. I see the resolve in his expression, the same quiet, unmovable determination I’ve come to recognize over the years. He’s not going to budge.

But neither am I.

The weight of all the secrets between us settles onto my shoulders, pressing down like a phantom hand. I hate it. The not knowing. The space between us where there used to be none. 

More than that, I worry. Because if I'm keeping things from him, then he's keeping things from me. And whatever he's hiding? 

I have the sinking feeling it's worse.

A flash of dull metal catches my eye in the corner of the room. It’s an old computer, long since corroded. The screen is cracked, the keyboard half-detached, and most of its components are fried, but there’s something wedged into the side—an old memory chip, still embedded in the port.

I hesitate for a moment before pulling it free. The casing is brittle, and I half expect it to crumble in my fingers. Somehow, it stays intact. I don’t have high hopes, but I slide the chip into my Hunter’s watch anyway. The device hums as it processes the data, flickering between corrupted strings of code. A small holographic display appears above my wrist, lines of text streaming too fast for me to catch.

Data corruption detected. Unable to fully recover contents. Processing partial retrieval...

The loading bar crawls forward, stalling, flickering, and then finally stabilizing. The chip contains a distorted audio file that appears, and I press play. 

At first, there’s nothing but static, hissing and popping like a broken transmission, but eventually, a voice crackles through.

“—progress remains stagnant. I had hoped for better results by now, but these things take time. Time we may not have.”

Dead air follows, dragging long enough that I think the recording is over until—

“The Evol subjects remain unpredictable. They manifest in ways we still cannot fully categorize. Standard classifications are becoming obsolete. Some variations are so rare they border on singularities. How do you account for something entirely unique?”

The static swallows the voice again, distorting it into an unrecognizable garble before it cuts back in.

“The human body was never meant to house these modifications. The integration—too volatile. Too many failures. And yet, the directive remains clear. We must succeed.”

Succeed in what? The recording doesn’t say. There’s more static, more silence before the log cuts out completely.

I frown. Evol subjects? Modifications? That sounds eerily similar to what some of the Fleet members were talking about before.

My mind spins with questions I can’t answer as I press on. The next door I find is heavier than the others—reinforced metal that groans when I push it open.

The lights spurt to life the moment I step inside. Unlike the rest of the facility, this room still has power.

Rows of monitors line the walls, their screens humming as they boot up one by one. Some display old system code, lines of text scrolling too fast to follow. Others flash distorted security footage, cycling through different angles of the concrete room I saw earlier—the one with the chairs and restraints. The cameras stutter, static swallowing the feed before they blink back on.

In the corner, something bigger comes online. A mainframe. The technology is old, clunky, and obsolete, but still, its lights flicker awake like eyes opening in the dark, small blinking indicators pulsing in sequence. 

A dashboard stretches across the central console, dozens of buttons flashing, some staying steadily lit. I brush debris away, revealing more controls beneath the dust and grime. 

The main screen in the centre flicks on at last, white text blinking against a black background:

VERIFY IDENTITY.

There’s no login prompt. No password field. No access codes. Nothing I can brute force. I chew my lip, considering my options. It’s a long shot, but maybe—

I lift my hand over the dashboard, focusing on the hum of the system. If I can attune myself to its wavelength, I might be able to overload it. As soon as I channel my Evol, the machine reacts.

The screen explodes with scrolling code, numbers, and sequences flashing too fast to comprehend. The entire system beeps, lights bursting in rapid succession. Then, a robotic voice resounds from the speakers:

“Backdoor mainframe access initiated. Scanning. Please wait. Running backup protocols.”

I jerk my hand back, my heart hammering. The computer continues processing, text scrolling faster. At last—

“Welcome back, A-01.”

I stare at the screen. A-01? That means nothing to me. But at the same time—it does. It feels familiar, though I have no idea why. The screen blinks, waiting for input.

I start testing commands. “What is this place?”

“Sorry. Command not recognized.”

“Who built this facility?”

“Sorry. Command not recognized.”

“What is Project A-01?”

“Sorry. Command not recognized.”

I try one more. “Bring up backup data logs.”

The system hesitates.

“Warning. Backup data severely corrupted. Partial files available. Displaying accessible entries.”

A list of audio logs appears. No dates. No timestamps. No identifying markers.

I select the first one. A voice filters through the speakers, and my blood runs cold. It’s Gran. She sounds younger, but I recognize her immediately.

“Dr. Josephine, lead experimental researcher on Project X-Aether.”

The log plays on.

At first, she sounds excited. She talks about breakthroughs. Progress. How they are on the precipice of the extraordinary. With each successive log, her tone shifts.

“We lost Subject 1 again today. Managed to revive them in time, but we can’t keep pushing this threshold indefinitely.”

“Subject 2’s aggression toward staff continues to escalate. We may need to increase reprogramming efforts.”

“Subject 2 withstands pain beyond projected limits. The threshold is… unnatural.”

“An unexpected development. Subjects 1 and 2 have bonded. No matter how many times Subject 2 is reprogrammed to hate Subject 1, it never seems to stick.”

“We pitted them against each other. Subject 2—who never accepts defeat—lost. Deliberately. Despite knowing the consequences.”

The final entry is a video log. It’s barely visible—static, distortion, the image warping in and out—but I can still see her.

She looks exhausted. Shadows under her eyes. Her voice is softer now, almost resigned.

“They were meant to be weapons. Fail-safes against each other. But we have created something else entirely.” She exhales a shaky breath, as if laughing—or maybe crying. “Together, they are the ultimate weapon.”

The video stutters, glitching into bursts of static as Gran suddenly rises from her desk. The movement knocks the camera askew, tilting the angle so that half the screen is swallowed in shadow. On the desk, half-obscured by a mess of scattered notes and old equipment, is a single framed picture. Two small figures stand frozen in time, but the distortion in the footage makes it impossible to make out any details.

My chest tightens as I take a slow step forward, then another. The glow of the monitor washes over my hands as I reach out, eyes narrowing in an attempt to sharpen the image. Just as I lean in, the screen cuts to black.

The robotic voice crackles to life, emotionless and cold.

“Remote access detected. Identity verification: denied. Data purge initiated. Self-destruction sequence engaged.”

My stomach plummets.

“No, no, no—override command!” My fingers fly across the panel, searching for anything I can use to stop it, but the system has already locked me out. The only thing responding is the damn robotic voice.

“Command revoked. All non-administrative access denied.”

Then, another voice buzzes over the speakers, low and full of restrained fury. “Whoever you are, you’ve made a grave error.”

“Caleb? Caleb, it’s me!” He doesn’t hear me. The alarm blares. A deafening wail that shakes the walls and drills straight into my skull. The countdown begins in the same monotone voice, far too calm for what it announces. 

“Please evacuate. Five minutes until self-destruct.”

The feed cuts.

Shit.

Adrenaline slams into me like a shockwave, and I’m already moving. My boots scrape against the debris as I whirl toward the door. Five minutes. Five minutes to get back up through all the wreckage, the collapsed hallways, the flooded passageways—

I push the thought down and run, throwing myself through the door, ignoring the sting of fresh scrapes as I squeeze through the narrow gap. My flashlight bounces wildly in my grip as I sprint down the hallway, my boots skidding on the slick floor. 

The metal stairs leading up are warped and rusted, but I take them two at a time, hands slamming against the railing to keep myself upright.

There is a shift above me—a groan of metal, the building crying out in its final death throes. I don’t have time to look up before part of the ceiling collapses, sending a cascade of debris crashing down. I hurl myself sideways, barely avoiding being crushed. Dust and rust clog my throat as I cough, blinking through the haze.

A jagged piece of rebar has torn into my sleeve, slicing through my forearm. I grit my teeth and yank free, hot blood trickling down to my wrist. 

No time. No time to stop.

I keep moving, crawling over fallen beams and shattered glass. The halls twist and turn, too many of them looking the same in the emergency lights. I nearly take a wrong turn before spotting a rusted sign pointing back toward the exit. My ankle twinges from an earlier misstep, but I push through the pain, forcing my legs to carry me faster.

The ground quakes beneath me, the facility’s foundations giving way. My breath comes in ragged gasps. The stairwell is up ahead, just beyond a room I hadn’t noticed before. The door is half-open, revealing a large diagram pinned to the far wall.

A human body. Strange, intricate markings cover the skin. I shouldn’t stop. I don’t have time, but my gut screams at me to grab it. I dart inside, snatching the fragile paper from the wall. My fingers smear blood across the edges, but I don’t let go. 

The sirens grow louder, the countdown reaching its final minute. A violent tremor rocks the ground, sending me sprawling. The main exit is ahead, but a chunk of ceiling drops between me and salvation. Smoke, dust, and fire rise in its place.

No way forward. No way back. 

Adrenaline drowns out reason. I spot an air vent, rusted but large enough. I throw myself at it, kicking at the grating until it gives way. The tunnel is narrow, my shoulders scraping against jagged edges, but I force myself through, dragging my body toward the faintest sliver of light ahead.

The final countdown echoes behind me.

Five. Four.

A wave of heat sears my back, the explosion catching up to me.

Three. Two.

I see the exit. A breath away.

One.

A cacophony of fire and destruction erupts behind me. The force propels me forward, sending me tumbling into the open, onto the cold, damp ground outside.

I lay there, chest heaving, pain screaming through every nerve. Smoke curls into the night sky, the ruins of the facility crumbling in on itself. The diagram crinkles in my grip as I shove it into my backpack. My fingers fumble with the zipper, slick with sweat, and the moment it’s secured, I push myself upright only for my ankle to buckle beneath me. 

Pain lances up my leg, sharp enough to drag a hiss from between my teeth. I slam a hand against the nearest tree, using it to keep myself steady. The smoke curling from the crater stings my eyes, reducing everything to shifting shadows and hazy light. 

Without the hatch as a landmark, I have no sense of direction. The stars should be visible, but the thick black haze chokes them out, leaving the sky an empty, suffocating void.

Grumbling under my breath, I dig into my pocket and pull out my phone. The cracked screen stares back at me, dark and useless. At some point during my escape, it must have taken a fatal hit.

“Great.”

I try my Hunter’s watch next, but the charge is too low to connect to a satellite. It lets out a weak, static-filled buzz before giving up entirely.

The smoke is sinking into my lungs, coating my throat with its acrid bite. I pick a direction at random, hoping I’ll come across something—one of the marked trees, a shift in the terrain, anything.

Limping forward, each step sends a fresh jolt of pain through my ankle. The ground is uneven, scattered with loose stones and fallen branches, and every misstep threatens to send me sprawling. 

I walk for what feels like forever with still no sign of the marked trees to orientate me or any other signs leading to my car.

A shiver prickles at the back of my neck. The hair on my arms stands on end, a static-like charge humming beneath my skin. The air shifts, wrong in a way that makes my stomach drop. The Metaflux comes before my watch can even bleat out a warning.

My fingers tighten around the straps of my backpack, and I listen. Somewhere in the dark, just beyond the reach of my flashlight, they materialize.

The underbrush rustles—a soft, unnatural sound, like something brushing against reality itself. Then another, from a different direction. The air distorts, carrying the scent of damp earth and something sickly sweet, something that makes my teeth itch.

I can’t see them yet, but I know they’re there, and there’s more than one. Heart hammering, I reach for my guns. The air is thick with that wrongness, the kind that makes my skin crawl and my instincts scream. I flick on my flashlight, sweeping it across the trees. 

The beam catches nothing but shifting shadows. Then, a shimmer in the dark, a distortion of space like heat warping the air. 

Lurkers.

Not the worst I could be dealing with, but not ideal—not with my ankle the way it is. Lurkers are fast, almost imperceptible when they move, their bodies blending into the environment like a mirage. They won’t stay hidden forever, though. Once they strike, they have to fully materialize.

I adjust my stance. If they’re going to attack, I need to make them do it on my terms. I flick my flashlight off, plunging the forest into near-total darkness.

Silence.

A heartbeat.

The first one lunges. I pivot, planting my good foot into the dirt, and fire twice the second I catch the shimmer of its form breaking into the physical plane. My bullets slam into its chest, the impact sending it reeling back with a sickening, gurgling shriek.

The second one is faster. I feel it before I see it—air shifting at my back. I twist at the last second, narrowly avoiding its claws as they slice through the space I just occupied. Pain flares in my ankle as I land hard, but I grit my teeth, ignoring it.

I whip my gun around and fire at point-blank range.

One. Two. Three shots.

The Lurker hisses, its form flickering erratically before it collapses, twitching, into the dirt. A blur of movement allows me to spot a third one. 

I drop low, just barely dodging as it rakes claws where my throat was a second ago. I roll, ignoring the way my ankle screams in protest, and come up on one knee. The moment I see the distortion break—I shoot.

With a snarl, it fully materializes—tall, emaciated, crystal-like skin stretched too tight over its bones, eyes like empty voids.

The air crackles around me, thick with the scent of burning ozone and charred metal. My chest rises and falls in shallow gasps, adrenaline roaring through my veins as I brace myself for the next attack.

It lunges. I twist, barely avoiding the serrated edge of the blade as I drive my fist into its ribs. Pain flares up my arm, but I don’t stop. Another comes at me from the left, and I duck.

A claw clamps around my wrist. My pulse jumps as an eerie shimmer distorts the air around us. The Wanderer snarls something incomprehensible, and then—

I fall.

No—

I am pulled.

The world stretches and twists, ribbons of colour bleeding into endless black. I try to move, to fight, but my body is weightless, unmoored from gravity itself. My breath catches in my throat. There’s no ground beneath me, no sky above. Just the boundless, infinite void.

A mirage of deep blues and shifting violets ripples around me, as if the universe itself is breathing. Stars glimmer in the distance, pulsing like dying embers. Long, shimmering bands of silver stretch out in all directions, weaving in and out of existence, never solid, never still. 

The vastness of it is suffocating—I have no control, no direction. I am a speck, adrift in an ocean of time and light.

Then I see a plane, floating just as aimlessly as I am. It’s impossible, and yet it’s there, suspended in the nothingness. The hull is scratched, the metal dull beneath the eerie glow of the void. 

I can’t see inside; the cockpit is fogged over, warning lights flickering in frantic bursts across the instrument panel.

My stomach twists. Someone is inside. I reach out instinctively. My fingers brush cold metal, and I grasp onto the wing, pulling myself closer. It’s harder than it should be—every movement feels sluggish, like I’m wading through thick, invisible currents. Hand over hand, I make my way toward the cockpit.

I press my face against the glass. At first, I see nothing but the ghostly reflection of the tunnel’s shifting light. Then, through the haze, I make out a slumped figure in the pilot’s seat.

Caleb.

His head is resting against the glass, his face partially obscured by shadows. His chest barely moves. Blood stains the fabric of his shirt, blooming darkly along the collar. I bang my fist against the glass, panic lancing through me.

“Caleb!”

No sound. My voice is swallowed by the void.

“Caleb, wake up!”

He doesn’t stir. I bang again, harder this time, my other hand still gripping the wing as if letting go will make this nightmare real. But is it real? Or just some cruel trick of the Metaflux? 

I don’t know. I don’t care. All I know is that I can’t watch him die. 

Not again.

Tears sting my eyes. I have to get out of here. I have to kill the Wanderer that dragged me into this abyss, but to do that, I have to leave him behind.

I can’t.

I won’t.

My fingers tighten against the cockpit’s edge, knuckles turning white. I stare at him, at the rise and fall of his breath—faint, too faint—and I make a choice.

I am getting him out of here. One way or another.

The Wanderer drifts in the void, its form shifting, tendrils of darkness curling and unfurling as if it can taste my fear. I need to lure it out—force it into a fight where I have a chance. But how do you fight when there is no ground, no up or down, no way to brace yourself?

“Come on,” I mutter. “Show yourself.”

The void around me pulses like a heartbeat, slow and methodical. Out of the vast nothing, a distortion ripples the space in front of me. The Wanderer shifts, coiling in and out of sight. 

I grab onto the plane’s wing, using it as leverage, twisting my body so I can face it head-on. It moves like liquid shadow, slipping in and out of my vision. I need it to come closer.

I slam my fist against the plane’s surface. The metal clangs, the sound instantly swallowed by the void, but the Wanderer notices. 

It writhes forward, tendrils reaching. I wait. Wait until it is just close enough—

Then I launch myself at it. The moment my fingers make contact with the inky mass, pain lances through my body. It burns, like frostbite and fire wrapped into one. 

My grip falters, but I grit my teeth and tighten my hold. The Wanderer writhes, its shifting form making it impossible to pin down. It lashes out, one of its tendrils cutting into my side, and I bite back a scream. 

I won’t let it win. 

With a snarl, I draw the knife strapped to my thigh and plunge it into the Wanderer’s core. It lets out a soundless scream, its body convulsing. I twist the blade, pushing deeper, and finally, the thing splinters apart like glass shattering in zero gravity.

Everything vanishes in an instant.

I’m on my back, staring up at a canopy of trees. My breathing is ragged, and the weight of reality slams into me. The forest is silent around me. No plane. No void. 

No Caleb.

I push myself up, wincing at the sharp sting in my side where the Wanderer cut me. The wound is still there. It was real, or real enough. I scan the area, but there’s no sign of what I just saw. 

With shaking hands, I make my way through the trees, my steps slow and shambling. The forest feels too still and too empty. I keep expecting the plane to be there, expecting Caleb to still be slumped in that cockpit, but there is nothing.

By the time I reach my car, my limbs are trembling. I slide into the driver’s seat and grip the wheel, trying to steady myself. My mind is a storm, circling the same thought over and over.

Caleb said he was in specialized training when he disappeared for months. I never questioned it. Never pushed him for details. But now… now I’m not so sure.

The dashboard interface lights up when I start my car, and I scroll through my contacts until I find Gideon’s name. 

The line rings once. Twice. Then a groggy voice picks up. “Inara?” Gideon sounds half-asleep. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

“Gideon.” My voice is tight. “Caleb’s training—when he disappeared for months. Was it real?”

There’s a pause. “Why are you asking me that?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Inara, come on. I don’t—”

“Gideon.” My patience is razor-thin. “Did he lie to me?”

Another pause. It stretches long enough that I know the answer before he even speaks. When he does, it’s careful, too measured. “Caleb… he did what he had to do.”

My stomach twists. “So it was a lie.”

“Inara—”

I end the call before he can say anything else. I grip the wheel so tightly my knuckles turn white. My heart pounds in my chest. 

If Caleb lied about that… what else has he lied about?

Chapter Masterlist

Since Caleb's new Myth is out, I am once again wishing everyone good luck in their pulls. I know I need it. 🤣

It has been weeks since Caleb dropped me off in Linkon. We haven’t spoken in all that time. This is the longest we’ve ever gone without speaking—except for when I thought he was dead. 

That silence had been different, sharp-edged and suffocating, filled with grief so deep it had nearly swallowed me whole. This silence is something else. It gnaws at me in quieter ways, settling into the spaces between my ribs like an ache I can’t quite shake.

Every now and then, I find myself typing out a message. I miss you. Just that, simple and honest. Other times, my fingers hover over something more dangerous. 

I love you.

It doesn’t feel the same as the easy, innocent I love yous from before, the ones that had always been woven into our friendship. This is heavier, deeper—like an ocean I’m too afraid to step into.

Each time, I stare at the words until they blur, then delete them before I can make the mistake of sending them. I push my phone away as if distance alone can keep me from wanting to reach for him. If Caleb wanted to talk to me, he would have.

I tell myself that. Over and over.

Instead of dwelling on it, I throw myself into the one thing I can control: the search.

My fingers move swiftly across the keyboard at the Hunter’s Association, combing through every database I have access to, scouring for anything that resembles the technology I saw in that room. I have been at this since I got back, hunting for answers like a starving thing, refusing to let the trail go cold.

If Caleb won’t tell me what’s going on, I’ll find out on my own.

Whatever he’s gotten himself into, I have a feeling EVER is involved. The thought sits in my gut like lead. I know Caleb well enough to be certain of one thing: he doesn’t bend. He won’t be bullied or manipulated into something he doesn’t want to do—unless it has to do with me.

He has always protected me, even at his own peril. I press my lips together, the familiar weight of guilt settling over me.

I pray he didn’t put himself in danger for me, but I already know my prayers are useless.

The Association’s archives are vast, but they yield nothing useful. No matches, no leads, just an endless loop of dead ends. Frustrated, I’ve taken my search beyond the Association, visiting every technology store in Linkon, sketchbook in hand, showing a rough drawing of what I saw.

The responses are always the same—confusion, skepticism. Even the shop owners in the city’s most prestigious tech hubs look at me like I’m asking them to build me a time machine.

Like I’ve drawn something straight out of a sci-fi flick.

Like I’m chasing something that doesn’t exist.

But I know what I saw, and I know Caleb is tangled in it. 

I am going to find out why.

“Inara?”

Tara’s voice cuts through my frustration, and I spin in my chair to see her standing there, clutching a thick folder of files.

“Hi, Tara,” I greet, forcing my voice into something light, pretending I have more energy than I do. “How are you today?”

“Oh! Good, thank you.” She smiles and settles into the chair beside me, her expression warm but tinged with caution. “I cross-referenced those drawings you gave me and did a deep dive through all known technology in our records. I couldn’t find anything that resembled the image.”

My stomach sinks. I already expected that answer, but hearing it out loud solidifies my frustration. If the Association doesn’t have it, if even the high-end tech shops don’t recognize it, then what the hell was that thing?

Tara must see the disappointment on my face because she quickly glances around before lowering the files into my hands. Her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper. “But I did dig a little deeper on my own time.” 

She winks, and I catch her meaning immediately. She has connections outside the Association—ones with impressive skills. The kind of skills that can unearth things that aren’t meant to be found.

“I can’t exactly tell you how accurate this information is,” she continues, “but there were some interesting findings.” Before I can flip open the files, she grabs my arm, her grip firm. “But promise me, you won’t go looking for this stuff alone.”

I meet her gaze, wide and earnest, and force a reassuring smile. “Of course not.”

The lie comes too easily.

Tara exhales, her shoulders dropping slightly, but she doesn’t look convinced. “I mean it, Inara. Whatever this is, someone really doesn’t want it found. I had to go through some—” she hesitates, choosing her words carefully, “—unusual channels to get this, and even then, the info was buried.”

I finally open the file, my pulse kicking up at the grainy, black-and-white image clipped to the first page. The resolution is terrible, but the structure—the shape—of the device is unmistakable.

“There’s no official record of this tech anywhere,” Tara murmurs. “No company, no patent, no manufacturer tied to it. It was scrubbed from every known database. The only reason I even found this is because my friend knows how to dig through layers of digital footprints that shouldn’t exist.”

I run my fingers over the image as if touching it will make it more real. “Where was this taken?”

Tara hesitates. “That’s the other thing. The metadata was wiped, but my friend was able to recover just enough to get a general location.” She points to some coordinates—longitude and latitude.

Tara must see the gears turning in my head because she leans in, her expression fierce. “Don’t go looking for this. Someone went through a lot of trouble to bury this. If you go poking around, they’ll know.”

I hold her gaze, forcing sincerity into my tone. “I won’t go alone.”

Tara narrows her eyes. “That’s not the same as not going at all.”

“I know,” I say simply, and that’s all the truth I’m willing to offer.

I grip the file tighter. It is dangerous, but it’s also my only lead.

And I’m done waiting for answers.

After work, I throw myself onto the couch, files spread out in front of me, phone balanced on one knee as I punch in the coordinates Tara found. The location is hours outside of Linkon. 

The satellite image shows nothing but an unbroken stretch of dense forest—no roads, no buildings, no signs of life. I zoom in, scrolling the map, scanning for anything that doesn’t belong. A structure hidden under the canopy, a clearing too clean-cut to be natural—something.

There’s nothing, which only makes me more suspicious.

There’s only one way to get answers. If I leave now, I won’t make it until after dark. A smarter, more cautious version of me might think twice about trekking into an uncharted forest alone at night. 

But I am this me, and this me says fuck it and laughs in the face of danger.

I swap my clothes for something darker, something easy to move in. Strapping my firearms to my thighs, I double-check the charge, grab a flashlight, and throw some essentials into a bag—wire cutters, extra batteries, a knife. 

As I head for my car, I pull up Caleb’s contact, thumb hovering over the screen.

Old habits die hard.

Every time I went off on one of my so-called "adventures," I let him know. If he wasn’t coming with me, he would at least know where to find me. And most of the time? He would find me—be there before I even arrived, waiting in the shadows with that exasperated look, like he couldn't believe I was making him do this again.

Even when he was at the academy, he somehow found a way.

I sigh, locking my phone and shoving it into my pocket. I can’t risk him trying to stop me.

The drive takes three hours, the city lights fading into nothing, swallowed by the blackened countryside. By the time my GPS announces my arrival, I am parked on the side of an empty road, staring out at an endless sea of trees.

It’s exactly as the map said.

Nothing.

I don’t buy it. Killing the engine, I grab my bag and step out, wading into the forest.

In the city, even at night, there’s always some source of light—street lamps buzzing, neon signs flickering, headlights cutting through the streets. Out here, there is nothing but the stars blinking through the slivers of sky between the canopy.

The trees stretch high above, their silhouettes jagged against the night, branches shifting like skeletal fingers. The only sounds are the distant chirps of insects and the rustle of leaves in the wind.

I move carefully, searching for any sign of disturbance. At first, everything looks untouched, just another stretch of wilderness. As I trudge deeper, I spot something carved into the bark of a tree. The marking is deep, etched with purpose. Not initials, not some random graffiti—this was placed here deliberately.

I scan the area, eyes sweeping the trunks around me. More of them, spaced apart, barely visible in the darkness.

A path.

I follow.

The deeper I go, the stranger things become. I nearly miss the first piece of debris, half-buried under a thick layer of leaves—a slab of stone, rough-edged, the corner of what could be a broken wall. Further ahead, another piece. A fragment of a statue, the details eroded beyond recognition.

Something was here. Something old.

A chill creeps up my spine when I step on something that does not feel like dirt. Beneath my boot, the ground gives just slightly, with the unmistakable hollow sound of something beneath the earth.

I kneel, brushing away the layers of dirt and leaves. It takes time—whatever is beneath has been buried for years, decades maybe—but eventually, I uncover the edge of something metal.

A hatch. I curl my fingers around the handle and pull, but it doesn’t budge.

Locked.

I draw my gun, pressing the barrel to the rusted lock and fire. The sound is deafening in the stillness, shattering the quiet. I fire again, again, until finally—crack—the lock gives.

Grabbing the handle, I pull the hatch open. A rush of stale air escapes, swollen with the scent of damp earth and rust.

I aim my flashlight down. A metal ladder descends into the dark. I holster my gun, and without hesitation, I begin to climb.

The ladder is cold beneath my fingers, slick with condensation. I bite down on the flashlight, jaw aching as I keep the beam steady, but the darkness still presses in on all sides, writhing just beyond the reach of the light. My descent feels endless. The shaft swallows the sound of my boots against the rungs, muffling it, but the echoes still roll up like distant thunder.

I hate thunder.

It rattles my ribs, reminds me of a Wanderer’s roar and of the explosion. The force of it, the way the ground shook, the way I was thrown back, ears ringing, lungs burning.

The bottom comes suddenly, my boot hitting solid ground with a dull thud. I pull the flashlight from my mouth and sweep it ahead. A short tunnel stretches forward, reinforced walls eaten by rust, the metal streaked and pitted.

Water drips from the ceiling, pooling in uneven patches along the floor. Vines dangle from above, curling around corroded pipes. The whole place looks like it was left to rot decades ago.

At the end of the tunnel, a door looms, barely clinging to its hinges. The metal is warped, caved inward—someone tried to blast through it. I push my shoulder against it, but it doesn’t move. The only way through is the gap near the bottom.

I crouch, pressing my stomach to the wet floor, and crawl between the twisted metal. My shoulders scrape against the jagged edges as I squeeze through, but finally, I spill out onto the other side.

The corridor beyond is vast.

I stand slowly, sweeping my flashlight across the space. The moment I move, sensors flicker to life—ancient and struggling to function. Overhead, long-dead lights sputter, coughing out pale, sickly light in erratic bursts, illuminating the hallway in flashes like lightning.

The corridor stretches far in both directions, lined with heavy-duty doors. Some are numbered. Others aren’t. All of them are reinforced with thick metal bolts securing them in place. A keypad lock sits beside each one, grime crusted into the seams.

I press my fingers to one of the reinforced windows, swiping away a layer of filth, but the glass is thick, the room beyond drowned in shadows. Nothing moves inside. If there’s anything in there at all, it’s long since succumbed to the dark.

I keep moving. Most of the doors are locked, but then—I come across one that isn’t.

I push it open cautiously, stepping inside. The room is small. A bed is bolted to the floor, rusted restraints hanging from its sides—thick, industrial, meant to hold someone down.

The walls are covered in scratches, deep and erratic. Tally marks. Hundreds of them, carved into the surface with something sharp. Here and there, the scratches look like they could be letters, maybe words, but they’re too worn to read.

Something about this place…

I stare at the bed. The restraints. The scratches.

My fingers trail over the marks in the wall, and my stomach twists. I know this place, but how could I?

I turn sharply and leave the room behind. I don’t hesitate as I move through the corridors, taking turns like I already know where they lead. Left. Right. Another left. The choices feel automatic, as if my body is acting before I can think, pulling me deeper.

After one last right, I come to a halt. The hallway opens into something completely wrong.

A playground.

The floor is fake grass, still green beneath the film of dust and grime. A mural is painted on the far wall—a bright blue sky with puffy white clouds, cartoonish and artificial. A single swing hangs from rusted chains, swaying slightly in the still air. A slide. Monkey bars.

My breath catches as I step forward, my pulse pounding. I can almost hear it—the sound of breathless laughter. My own voice, small and delighted—Push me higher, Caleb! His answering laugh as we ran, as we chased each other.

But those aren’t my memories.

Are they?

I shake my head hard, dragging myself back to the present. Focus. I'm here for something real—something that ties Caleb to that room, to whatever this place was. Not to linger in some forgotten playground built to keep children pacified.

Turning away, I step over fallen beams and squeeze through collapsed hallways where the ceiling has given way. Some stretches are so tight I have to slither through, my body scraping against rusted metal and cracked concrete.

Water drips constantly, a steady plink plink plink in the distance. Pipes groan somewhere deep within the facility, shifting as though something unseen still stirs within the walls. The sounds coil in the dark, twisting into something just shy of mechanical breathing.

Eventually, I find a staircase leading downward with an old, dust-caked sign hanging above the entryway, the lettering still visible beneath the grime: Laboratory, Testing Facilities, and Medical Sciences.

The metal stairs are slick with moss and algae. Some are bent inward, warped from age or heat. Others are missing chunks entirely, making my descent slow. Debris from the ceiling litters the steps—broken panels, fallen wires, the skeletal remains of a ventilation duct twisted like a ribcage.

The air down here is worse. Thick. Rancid. The hallways are barely passable.

Some sections are so cluttered with collapsed beams, overturned filing cabinets, and discarded machinery that I have to climb my way over. Other parts force me to crouch low, slipping between the wreckage like I’m worming my way through a collapsed tunnel.

I check every room I pass, but most are useless. Storage closets filled with shattered glass and rusted tools. Offices where papers dissolve to nothing the second I touch them, the ink bled away years ago.

Then I find something different. A room unlike the others.

Concrete walls, bare. No peeling paint. No broken desks. Just two large chairs, bolted to the floor. Thick leather straps hang limply from the armrests and footrests—restraints. The kind meant to keep someone completely still.

Strange machinery is hooked up to each chair—monitors, tubes, old mechanical arms ending in sharp-tipped instruments. I don’t recognize half of it.

I run my fingers over the nearest chair, and my whole body shudders. Dread wells up so violently, I have to pull my hand away. My chest tightens. Panic claws at my throat, though I don’t know why.

Another door stands just off to the side of this room. It’s slightly ajar, wedged in place by fallen debris. I press a hand against it, testing the weight. It doesn’t budge. I set my shoulder against it and push harder.

Still nothing.

Teeth gritted, I shove with everything I have, my boots slipping against the damp floor as I force my way through the narrow crack. The metal groans in protest, giving just enough for me to squeeze inside—

My foot catches on something, and I hit the ground hard, my flashlight flung from my grip. It crashes against the floor, spinning, the beam whipping wildly before finally settling—

Right on a skeleton.

I freeze.

The remains sit slumped in the corner, still clad in an old, tattered lab coat. The skull is caved in. Several bones appear cracked, broken, like whatever killed this person hadn’t stopped at just one blow.

Swallowing hard, I crawl forward and reach for the ID badge still clipped to the coat.

Dr. Xander Voss Chief Medical Officer and Researcher for Technological Advancement

Voss? Like the woman who approached me at the Fleet’s party? Could there be a connection there? I pocket it.

When I finally look around the room, I realize I’ve found something. The space is filled with mechanical parts. Eyes. Hands. Feet. Prosthetics, but—more intricate. More advanced. 

Some still gleam under the flashlight’s beam, untouched by rust, while others have been reduced to skeletal frames and parts.

Against the far wall sits a machine. It’s similar to the one in Caleb’s secret room, but older. Less sleek. More exposed wires, more tangled cables. A cruder version of something far more advanced.

I lift my wrist, activating my Hunter’s watch. The scan flickers, then gives me a carbon date—

That can’t be right.

The range is impossible. It dates back to an era when this kind of technology shouldn’t have existed, stretching all the way to a thousand years into the future.

I frown, scanning the machine for a model number, a manufacturer,anything that might clarify its origins.

Nothing.

I move to the robotic parts instead, picking up cogs, wires, fuses, intricate pieces I don’t even recognize.

No serial numbers. No tags. No stamps.

Who built this?

And when?

I stare at the picture for a solid five seconds, my sluggish brain struggling to process the sheer magnitude of my own shame. The imprint on the glass is undeniable—a perfect, smudgy crime scene of my face, pressed up like a damn cartoon character. I groan, rubbing my forehead as if that will somehow erase both the memory and the evidence. The notification on my phone blares, and the text message that pops up makes me want to sink to my knees and rewind time.

Caleb: “You’re the worst spy I have ever seen.”

Is it possible to simply perish from embarrassment? Maybe if I stand really still, like a deer in headlights, my problems will lose interest and leave.

Caleb: “Like. Actually. I am CONCERNED. You just stood there?? Like that?? What was the plan?”

I type out a response, delete it, then type again. I consider throwing my phone in the sink.

Inara: “I was just… admiring the structural integrity of the glass.”

Caleb: “Oh, obviously. And what was the verdict? Solid craftsmanship?”

I resist the urge to let out a strangled noise. I am never drinking again.

Inara: “Shhhhhhh. Stop talking.”

Caleb: “So that’s a no, then?”

I hate him. I hate him so much. Fuck his precious forearms and his delectable elbows! 

Caleb: “Did you even look at the rest of the house yet?”

My stomach sinks. Oh. Oh, no. I see it. A full-blown pyramid of shoes stands gloriously by the door. My masterpiece. My drunken magnum opus.

Caleb: “Tell me you at least remember the pyramid.”

Fuck…. I do. A vague, wobbly memory of me standing, arms raised in triumph, shouting something about ‘engineering genius’ flashes through my mind.

This is the worst morning of my life.

Caleb strides in, a takeout bag in one hand and a coffee in the other, grinning like he’s already three steps ahead of me in whatever conversation we’re about to have. His eyes shift between deep amethyst and the soft glow of rose quartz, as if light itself bends to them. Dusk trapped beneath glass. 

I could get lost in them—maybe I do, just for a second—until he presses the coffee and bag into my hands, snapping me back to reality.

“How are ya feelin’, pip-squeak?” he asks, amusement braided into every syllable.

I groan, peeling back the wrapper on the breakfast he brought me. “Better than I deserve.”

He chuckles, leaning against the counter. “So, whose ridiculously attractive forearms inspired you to drink yourself into a home renovation meltdown?”

I nearly choke on my food. I do not remember telling him anything about forearms last night, and I have no clue if I admitted that it was his stupid, unfairly sculpted forearms that did it. Heat flares up my neck, blooming across my chest and ears, and I can physically feel my face turning beet red.

My alcohol-soaked brain hasn’t fully recovered, and in a kneejerk attempt at self-preservation, I bumble, “Mine.”

Caleb’s eyebrows shoot so high they might escape his face entirely. “Your own ridiculously attractive forearms somehow made you want to drink and assault the furniture?”

I don’t trust myself to speak again, so I just nod.

He stares at me for a long moment, then lets out a slow, impressed whistle. “Damn. That’s some next-level self-infatuation.”

I scowl at him, but it lacks heat. Mostly because my brain still feels like it’s wrapped in cotton and my stomach is busy trying to digest both food and humiliation. “If you tell anyone about this, I will kill you.”

Caleb grins with too much smug satisfaction, before nudging my foot under the table. "Well, since you’ve clearly spent too much time in the house, how about coming to the Fleet party tonight?"

I hesitate. Those events are always stiff, filled with too many officers who talk in clipped sentences and judge you based on the polish of your boots. Caleb in those settings is different, like someone flipped a switch, and suddenly he's another perfect soldier in a sea of disciplined postures and unreadable expressions.

He must see the reluctance display on my face because he leans in, tapping his fingers against the side of my cup. "C'mon, pip-squeak. It won't be that bad,” he places a hand over his heart dramatically. "I will not, under any circumstances, discuss fleet protocols or combat formations."

"Fine," I grumble, pointing a warning finger at him. "But if I see even one salute from you, I’m out.”

The party hums with low conversation, the clinking of glasses, and the occasional bark of laughter that doesn’t quite reach the eyes of the people making it. I nurse my drink, more for something to do with my hands than any real interest in it, while Caleb shakes yet another person’s hand. His expression is pleasant but distant, a well-practiced ease in the way he carries himself. He makes eye contact, nods at the right moments, but I can tell he isn’t fully listening.

I’m not, either.

Instead, I watch. The way the officers hold themselves, the way some linger too long when speaking to him, like they’re searching for something between the lines of his answers. The way others barely hide their sneers when they turn away. There’s a current running through the room, subtle but there, like the tension before a storm.

Caleb finally breaks away from the latest well-wisher and turns to me, eyes softening. “You doing okay?”

“I’m fine,” I say automatically, but I’m still thinking about the things I’ve overheard—the anomalies, the equipment failures, the way people keep bringing them up just for Caleb to immediately shut them down, like he doesn’t even want the words in the air.

Like he’s trying to pretend they don’t exist.

Before I can press, someone calls his name, and he glances over my shoulder, his posture going rigid for the briefest moment. When he meets my eyes again, there’s an apology in them.

“Sorry, pip-squeak. Just a sec.”

He steps away, swallowed back into the sea of uniforms. For the first time tonight, I wonder if I should stop trailing behind him like a shadow—and start looking for the things he doesn’t want me to see.

I swirl the drink in my hand, watching the way the light catches against the glass. My reflection warps in the amber liquid, a distortion of myself—fitting, considering how out of place I feel.

I drift.

Not too far, not enough to be obvious, but enough to slip between groups unnoticed, catching snippets of hushed conversations.

“…not adding up. They’re saying it’s just fluctuations, but—”

“The logs don’t match. If command thinks we’re just going to ignore—”

“I heard the last patrol didn’t even make it back intact. They’re covering—”

Caleb’s name comes up more than once. So does deepspace. So do anomalies. And each time, the voices drop lower, wary, glancing around as if the walls themselves are listening.

I make my way toward the outer edges of the room, where the air feels less stifling, and lean against one of the pillars, pretending I’m just another disinterested plus-one waiting for the night to end.

But I keep listening.

What I hear makes my skin prickle. Something is happening out there, beyond the safety of planets and stations, in the vast emptiness of deepspace. Whatever it is, Caleb is right in the middle of it. It reminds me how many secrets lay dead and rotting in the valley that has grown between us. It also reminds me that every time he goes to work, he might never come home…

Before I can fully process that, I catch movement in my periphery.

A woman approaches—sharp uniform, sharp eyes. She doesn’t look at me right away, but I know she’s heading toward me. There’s a deliberateness to her stride, a certainty. When she finally turns her gaze on me, it’s assessing.

“You’re the one Caleb won’t shut up about,” she says. Not a question.

I arch a brow. “Depends who’s asking.”

The corner of her mouth twitches, but her expression stays neutral. “Commander Aurelia Voss.” She extends a hand, and I take it, her grip firm. She studies me for a beat, as if weighing something, before speaking again.

“You might want to ask your boy what’s really going on out there.”

Then she releases my hand and disappears into the crowd before I can ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean.

I stand there, my pulse a slow, steady thrum. The crowd shifts, a ripple of movement, and then Caleb is there, slipping through the sea of uniforms with that effortless grace of his. His eyes find me quickly, like he knew exactly where I’d be. The moment he sees me, his expression eases until I open my mouth.

"Who's Voss?" I ask, keeping my voice level.

His jaw tightens, just a fraction, but it's enough to tell me there's something there.

"Why?" He deflects, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve without meeting my eyes. "She talk to you?"

"Someone mentioned it. And you’ve been quick to change the subject every time. So?"

He shrugs. ”It’s nothing important. Just Fleet matters."

I narrow my eyes, unconvinced. "Fleet matters, huh?"

His voice sharpens, a bite to it now. “Forget it. It doesn’t concern you.”

I bristle, ready to fire back, but before I can, he extends his hand. "Come dance with me."

I eye him, suspicion clawing at my chest. "That’s your distraction?"

He smiles, and damn it, it works. "Humour me."

With a quiet sigh, I let him guide me onto the dance floor. He takes my hand in his, and places the other against my waist. The music is slow, lilting, pulling at something deep inside me. I step into it—or at least try to. Within seconds, my heel catches the edge of his boot.

He chuckles. "You’re not very good at this, are you?"

"Wow, what a revelation," I retort, forcing a sarcastic smirk. "It’s almost like I never took ballroom dancing at the academy."

"Shocking," he teases, effortlessly steering me back on track, his movements controlled and precise, like he's piloting a ship. "I, however, am exceptional at it."

"Humble, too," I mutter.

"Always." His grin widens before he leans in, his breath warm against my ear. "Stand on my feet."

I scoff, amused. "I’ll ruin your perfectly polished boots."

"You’re right." His grin shifts to something more wicked. Before I can protest further, the air around us seems to shift. A faint hum brushes against the space between us, lifting me ever so slightly, my toes no longer touching the floor. He keeps one hand on my waist, the other still holding mine, guiding me effortlessly across the floor as if I weigh nothing at all.

I should call him out for this ridiculous, unfair advantage, but I don’t. Instead, I allow myself to be swept up in the movement, the distance between us narrowing. His hold tightens, pulling me closer—closer than is appropriate, than any social rules would permit, but neither of us seems to care.

His amethyst-rose gaze locks with mine, intense and burning, something unspoken crackling between us, drawing us in. My pulse stutters, a traitor to my calm exterior. I don’t know who leans in first, but the space between us is closing rapidly, our breath mingling, the tension drawn tight like a wire about to snap—

Then, applause erupts, shattering the fragile bubble around us.

Caleb blinks, as if coming back to himself. Someone calls his name.

He exhales, brushing his thumb absently over the back of my hand before he releases me. "I’ll be right back."

I watch him slip away, his colonel’s mask sliding into place, but my mind is already elsewhere. Voss's words echo in my head. 

You might want to ask your boy what’s really going on out there.

The decision comes to me in an instant. I turn, slipping into the shadows of the crowd. This base is familiar from my time here, and I still have the skeleton key Caleb gave me.

I move cautiously through the halls, alert to every detail. Cameras track my every move, but I know their blind spots well. The guards follow predictable routes, easy to anticipate. When I hear the clack of boots approaching, I duck into an alcove, melting into the shadows. A few pass by without so much as a glance.

The heels of my shoes, however, are a liability. I slip them off, leaving them behind a pillar. Barefoot, I move more quietly, more swiftly, weaving through the corridors towards Caleb's office.

The tension coils in my gut as I approach the door. One last glance over my shoulder. No one.

I press the key to the panel, and the lock clicks open.

Slipping inside, I close the door behind me, exhaling the breath I didn't realize I was holding. The air is thick with his scent—clean, sharp, faintly metallic, like the cockpit of a ship. I move quickly, my eyes scanning the room, searching for something, anything. If answers are hidden here, I’m going to find them.

Caleb's office is pristine, a sterile shrine of black, white, and silver. The screens along the walls are dark, the room still. At first, it seems as if I’ve found nothing. Then I hear it. A faint hum. Barely perceptible, but there, beneath the silence.

I run my fingers along the panelled wall, feeling for something. Eventually, I find it—a thin line, almost imperceptible. A hidden panel. But there's no keypad, no handle, no lock.

I pause, thinking like him. Caleb doesn’t leave things unguarded. He doesn’t trust locks. He trusts himself. I exhale, resolve settling in my chest. Reaching out, I press my palm flat to the surface, right where his hand would naturally land if he leaned against the wall.

A faint click.

The panel slides open.

I step inside, and the lights blink on automatically. The room is small, filled with technology I don’t recognize—screens displaying data that makes no sense, sleek robotic parts, wires humming with energy. A mechanical arm hangs from the ceiling, its design intricate, precise, and unnervingly advanced.

I take a step closer, running my fingers over the edge of a console. None of this explains the whispers I overheard at the party. None of it accounts for the anomalies, the close calls, the name Voss.

And yet, something tells me I’ve stumbled upon something I wasn’t meant to see. The hum behind the panel still lingers in my ears when I hear the door to Caleb’s office slide open. My stomach drops. I turn just in time to see him standing there, silhouetted by the white light spilling in from the hall. His eyes lock onto mine, and the easy warmth that usually resides in them is gone.

“What the fuck are you doing?” His voice is low and controlled, but I can hear the barely restrained fury beneath it.

I straighten, meeting his gaze head-on. “What the hell is all this?”

He exhales sharply, stepping into the room, the door hissing shut behind him. “You shouldn’t be here, pip-squeak.”

“Yeah, no shit. That’s why it’s hidden behind a fucking secret panel. Now, are you going to tell me what this is, or do I get to keep playing detective?”

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he moves past me, as though trying to block my view of the room, as though I haven’t already seen too much. I push forward, refusing to let this slide like all the other times. “I’m serious, Caleb. Enough with the dodging, enough with the cute little diversions. I want the truth. Right now.”

“It’s classified.”

I let out a bitter laugh. “Oh, fuck off with that. I’m not one of your Fleet officers, Caleb. I’m not some clueless civilian, either. You don’t get to ‘classified’ your way out of this conversation.”

His jaw clenches, the muscle ticking. “You don’t understand what you’re asking.”

“Then explain it to me.”

His hands curl into fists at his sides. “It’s not that simple.”

“Bullshit.”

Something cracks in him then, his control slipping. “You always do this,” he snaps, stepping closer. “You push and push until you’re standing at the edge of something you don’t understand, and you don’t care. You never fucking care.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Should I just keep letting you lie to me? Keep pretending everything’s fine while you disappear deeper into whatever the hell this is?”

His lips press into a thin line. “Drop it, Inara.”

“No.”

This expression wavers, the anger giving way to something darker. He reaches for me, and I instinctively pull back, but he’s too fast. His hand clamps around my wrist.

“Let go of me.”

“You shouldn’t have come here,” he says, his voice eerily calm now. The rage is still there, but it’s muted, controlled—like a blade honed to a fine edge.

I try to yank my arm free, but his grip tightens—too tight. “Caleb—you're hurting me.”

He doesn’t react. It’s like I’m speaking to a stranger, someone who doesn’t recognize me. His expression is vacant, devoid of the boy I knew, the man I thought I still understood. I’ve seen him angry before, but this is different. This is cold. This is something else entirely.

“You should’ve just left it alone,” he hisses, and his tone sends a chill through me. There’s a hint of something threatening in it, something that twists my stomach into knots.

I struggle again, my bare feet scraping against the smooth floor as I try to pull away, but his grip doesn’t loosen. “Caleb, let go.”

He lifts his wrist, flicking two fingers toward his earpiece. “Liam. Get my plane ready. I’m leaving.”

Panic surges in my chest. “You’re not going anywhere until you explain what the fuck is going on!”

He doesn’t even glance at me. Instead, he lifts his free hand, fingers twitching—and suddenly, I can’t move. The floor seems to drop beneath me, but I don’t fall. My body locks up, frozen in place by an invisible, suffocating force. I can barely breathe. I can’t fight it. He holds me there like I’m nothing—like I’m an inconvenience, an afterthought.

“I warned you, pip-squeak,” he murmurs, his voice devoid of warmth.

My heart hammers in my chest, a mix of fear and realization—fear, not of him, but of what this means. Fear that I’ve just confirmed the worst of my suspicions.

The Caleb I knew is gone, and I have no idea who the hell is standing in front of me now.

He doesn’t give me a choice. His grip tightens around my wrist, dragging me toward the plane, his stride steady and ground eating. I dig my heels into the floor, my free hand clawing at his hold, but it’s useless.

“Caleb, stop! Let me go!” My voice echoes through the empty corridor, but he doesn’t even flinch.

The plane’s ramp lowers with a mechanical whirr, the interior dimly lit, sterile. As soon as we’re inside, he hauls me into a seat, securing the harness around me. My pulse throbs in my wrist, where the bruises are already blooming beneath his fingers. I yank my arm free the moment he lets go, cradling it against my chest. The skin is marked with angry shades of blue and purple—proof of his strength, of how far he’s willing to go.

Tears sting my eyes, but they’re not from sadness. No, I’m furious. Furious that the Fleet has turned him into this. Furious that I don’t know how to fix him. Furious that this is what we’ve become.

He settles into the pilot’s seat, running a hand through his hair, exhaling like he’s come down from whatever dark place he’d been. When he speaks, his voice is softer—almost normal.

“Let’s go home.”

I stare at him, my fingers curling into fists in my lap, and shake my head. “No. Drop me off at the station. I’m going back to Linkon.”

His hands tighten on the controls. “Inara, don’t be ridiculous—”

“I’m not staying, Caleb. Take me to the station. Now.”

For the first time since he dragged me out of that hidden room, he looks at me—really looks at me. The bruises on my wrist. The set of my jaw. The way I refuse to back down. He opens his mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to reason with me, but I see it in his face: he knows he won’t win this one.

His grip on the controls flexes before he exhales sharply through his nose. “Fine.”

The word lands between us, heavy and final. The engines hum to life, the plane shifting as it prepares for takeoff. Neither of us speaks. Neither of us looks at each other.

But something in the air between us has already changed, and I don’t know if we’ll ever get it back.