Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Dark circles lined her eyes as she stared at the fluorescent lights above, the sterile smell of antiseptic clinging to her scrubs like a second skin. The hospital was quiet, the lull between emergencies a deceptive peace. Her fingers twitched at her side, phantom pain from hours of suturing and writing reports.

"You should go home," one of the nurses offered kindly. "You're dead on your feet."

Home.

A hollow, meaningless word. She almost laughed. What home? A shoebox apartment with half-eaten takeout containers, a messy bed that still smelled like him, like the promises he made and shattered in the same breath.

She had found out the worst way possible. The lipstick on his collar, the late nights that stretched into early mornings with excuses that barely held weight. She had ignored the signs, convinced herself that he loved her, that he wouldn’t—couldn’t.

She was wrong.

The moment she saw him with her, the other woman, she felt something inside her collapse. It wasn’t just the betrayal. It was the realization that she had no one. She had poured everything into him, into the belief that she wasn’t alone. And he had ripped it away like it meant nothing.

Her hands clenched into fists.

She needed an escape. Anything to fill the void.

Pulling out her phone, she opened the one thing that had never failed her— Love and Deepspace . The login screen glowed softly in the dimly lit break room, and a familiar face greeted her.

Caleb.

His striking purple eyes—so unique, so breathtaking—held the kind of unwavering devotion she craved. The kind that didn’t falter. The kind that never wavered.

"I will never betray you."

The words always hit deep. Tonight, they buried themselves into the cracks of her soul.

It was stupid, pathetic even, but she held onto those words like a lifeline. Caleb wasn’t real. He belonged to the game’s MC. He would never be hers. And yet, she yearned for the way he looked at the MC, the way he would cross the galaxy for her, fight through death itself just to keep her safe.

No one had ever looked at her that way. No one ever would.

She pressed ‘Continue’ and let herself fall into the world of skyships, conspiracies, and a love that wasn’t hers.

She woke to the sound of distant beeping. Muffled voices. The scent of antiseptic filled her nose, sterile and clinical, but different from the hospital she had known.

Something was wrong. Her body felt… small. Wrong. Weak. Her limbs were sluggish, her fingers barely responding as she tried to move.

A metal surface pressed against her back. Restraints bit into her wrists. She blinked hard, vision adjusting to the harsh overhead lights. The room was cold, sterile. Figures in lab coats moved around her, their voices low, methodical. She wasn’t in the hospital. She wasn’t even in her world. A chill slithered down her spine.

"Subject is stabilizing. Increase the dosage."

She turned her head as much as she could, her pulse spiking at the sight of two other children strapped to identical slabs. A boy with tousled brown hair, his face twisted in discomfort. A girl beside him, her hands twitching in their restraints.

Her stomach dropped.

Caleb. Game MC.

No. No. No.

This wasn’t real. It couldn’t be. She had been playing the game. She had been in the break room. She had been—

"Vitals are erratic," one of the scientists noted. "Monitor the mutation rate." Mutation? She barely processed it, her heart pounding wildly in her chest. Panic clawed at her throat. This was Ever. The organization that experimented on children, that twisted them into weapons. She was supposed to be a player. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Her lips parted before she could stop herself.

"Oh, shit."

The room went silent. One of the scientists froze mid-step.

Her heart pounded. Yeah. That wasn’t supposed to happen.

"Did she just—?" one of them started, but another cut in sharply. "It’s an anomaly. Continue."

The beeping around her accelerated. There was a hiss of pressurized gas, and a burning sensation lanced through her veins. She gasped, jerking against the restraints as agony flooded her nerves. Every cell in her body screamed. It hurt. It hurt so much. She wasn’t sure if she was the one screaming or if it was the other two children, but she heard the sharp, high-pitched keening of pain echoing through the sterile walls. Her breath hitched as she caught Caleb’s face contorted in agony, his violet eyes fluttering, his body straining against the binds that held him. The girl beside him trembled violently, her hands clenching and unclenching as if she were trying to claw her way out of the torment.

What were they doing to them? To her?

More pain. More fire burning through her blood. Her bones felt like they were breaking, twisting, becoming something else entirely. Her vision blurred. Through the haze, she caught a scientist nodding in satisfaction. "Mutation rate is holding steady. Increase the next round."

More?

Her mind swam, drowning in agony, but she forced herself to stay conscious. To understand. To hold on to something—anything. But all she could do was watch as the other two suffered beside her. And that hurt even more.

//

The cell was cold, but their silence was colder. She tried to warm it. Day after day, after every torturous experiment, after every miserable return, she chipped away at the thick walls Caleb and MC had built around themselves. It wasn’t easy. MC startled at sudden movements, flinched when voices rose too loud. Caleb’s eyes were sharp, distrusting, always watching her as if she were another test from Ever, another threat he needed to be wary of.

She understood.

She really did.

This was all they had ever known. Their entire world was a sterile laboratory, cold steel tables, and faceless scientists who didn’t see them as children—only as data . They had no reason to believe in kindness. She, on the other hand, had lived . Not well, not happily, but she had been an adult once, full-grown, weathered by life in ways these kids shouldn’t have been. She had gotten to have a childhood, even if it was lonely. She had been able to make her own choices, even if they led to heartbreak.

They never had that.

They had been stolen. Shoved into this nightmare before they even knew what life outside of it was like. It made her sick. She wanted to tell them that there was more. That the world wasn’t just this, that there were warm places, people who smiled without cruelty, stars that didn’t glare down from behind reinforced glass.

But she couldn’t. Because they weren’t out there. Because she was here, just as powerless, just as trapped. So she did what little she could.

She talked.

She kept trying.

Game MC was warming up to her, slowly, cautiously. It started with stolen glances, less fear in her eyes when she moved, and then—one day—whispered words. Soft, hesitant little questions. "Does it hurt?" MC had asked once, her tiny voice breaking the suffocating quiet. She had laughed—dry, humorless. "Always." MC’s fingers curled into her own lap, hesitant. "...Me too."

It wasn’t much. But it was something.

Caleb, though…

He remained steadfast. She continued to talk. About nothing, about everything, about whatever scraps of normalcy she could cling to. "Did you know people used to believe wishes made on shooting stars would come true?" she mused one day, after another round of needles and electric pulses. "Kind of ridiculous, huh?" MC blinked at her, wide-eyed. Caleb, predictably, said nothing. She let her head roll against the wall, staring at the ceiling. "Still, it’s a nice thought. A little hope in the darkness." She exhaled softly. " Something to believe in." MC fidgeted with the frayed edge of her sleeve. "…Have you ever wished on one?"

She smiled, slow and sad. "Once." MC leaned in, curious. "What did you wish for?"

Her throat closed.

For love. For a place to belong. For someone to stay.

But those were the wishes of a woman who didn’t exist anymore. She forced a small chuckle. "I wished for a pet cat." MC giggled. Caleb’s gaze flickered to her for just a moment, unreadable, before he looked away again. It was progress.

She kept trying.

Telling them about little things. About colors, about food, about flowers and rain. MC started responding more. Asking small questions. Offering tiny smiles. But Caleb… He never softened. Never eased his guard. If anything, the closer MC got to her, the more wary he became. Like she was something dangerous. Like he was waiting for her to break their world apart. She wanted to tell him she wasn’t a threat. That she wasn’t trying to take MC away from him. That she just wanted—needed—to make this hell even the slightest bit more bearable.

But what good were words?

He had only ever known pain.

She would just have to prove it.

“Hey,” she tried one day, after they were thrown back into the cell. “What’s your favorite color?”

Caleb didn’t respond.

Game MC blinked, glancing between them. “…Purple,” she said hesitantly. A small grin tugged at her lips. “Figures.” She turned to Caleb, raising a brow. “And you?” Nothing. Just that same, impenetrable gaze. Her grin wavered, but she didn’t let it fall. “Y’know, I think mine is purple too.”

Silence.

//

She didn’t come back.

MC noticed first. The second she was thrown into the cell, she twisted around, eyes darting toward the door. Expecting another body to follow. But the cell door slammed shut. MC’s fingers curled around Caleb’s sleeve. “…Where is she?”

Caleb’s jaw clenched. MC’s grip tightened. "She’s coming back, right?"

“Stop worrying about her,” he muttered.

MC’s lips wobbled. “But—”

“She’s not our problem.”

MC flinched. He closed his eyes, tried to shut it all out. Tried to tell himself that it was better this way. The cell was quieter now. No more pointless chatter. No more ridiculous stories. No more incessant attempts to crack him open. It should have been a relief. So why did the silence feel heavier? Why did he keep expecting her voice to break through it? Why did he find himself listening—waiting? He didn’t care.

He didn’t .

And yet, when the door finally creaked open, when she was dragged back in, bruised and bloody and barely conscious—He realized, with a sharp twist in his chest, that he had been waiting for her too. That, despite himself, he had missed her. And he hated it. 

She didn’t say a word that night. No tired quips, no weak attempts to ease the tension. Nothing to fill the unbearable silence.She just layed there, curled on her side, breathing shallow, fingers twitching faintly against the cold floor.

MC hovered over her, hands wringing in the tattered fabric of her sleeves. "She’s not okay," she whispered. Caleb said nothing. MC turned to him, desperate. “We have to do something.”

He frowned. “And what exactly can we do?”

MC pressed her lips together. They had no medicine. No bandages. No soft bed to let her rest. The best they had was the ragged remains of their clothes and each other. And still—She pulled at the hem of her sleeve, tore off a strip of fabric with shaking hands. “We can at least—at least clean her up a little.” Caleb exhaled sharply but didn’t stop her. MC dipped the fabric in the stale water bowl they were given, wrung it out, and hesitated before gently pressing it against their girl’s temple, where a streak of dried blood marred her skin.

A flinch. Barely noticeable, but there. She was still awake. Still aware. Her eyes flickered open, dull and hazy. MC smiled at her, small and unsure. "It’s okay. We’re just helping." She blinked slowly, like even that was exhausting. Then, to MC’s horror, she tried to sit up. Her arms shook under the effort, her tiny body betraying her in ways her mind refused to acknowledge. She gritted her teeth, dragging in a breath, trying to force herself upright. And then collapsed. MC caught her before her head hit the floor.

"Stop it," she said, voice cracking. "You’re hurt. Just—just stay still, okay?" The girl’s fingers twitched weakly against MC’s arm. She tried to speak, to brush off their worry like she always did, but no sound came out. MC looked up at Caleb. He was still watching, still unreadable. But he wasn’t stopping her. Wasn’t telling her to leave it alone.

MC took it as permission.

Carefully, she adjusted their girl’s position, letting her rest against her own small lap. She dabbed at the blood on her face, trying to be gentle, ignoring the way her own hands trembled. After a moment, Caleb shifted. Wordlessly, he peeled off the outer layer of his own tattered shirt, folded it, and slid it beneath their girl’s head as a makeshift pillow. MC’s eyes widened, but she didn’t say anything. Neither did Caleb. And for the first time since she had arrived, their silence wasn’t cold.

It was quiet and almost…safe.

//

She recovered faster than she should have.

The last thing she remembered was the unbearable ache in her limbs, the dizziness threatening to drag her under. But now? Now, she could sit up without swaying, breathe without pain lancing through her ribs. The wounds she had barely clung to consciousness with just days ago were… healing. Too fast. She flexed her fingers, staring at the fresh skin where bruises should still be dark and angry. What the hell?

She didn’t have time to dwell on it. The scientists were too preoccupied preparing her for another round of tests, their hushed voices discussing figures, dosage adjustments, something about "observing at the brink."

They didn’t even bandage her up after the last experiment. They always did for the other children. Caleb’s injuries were tended to. MC’s wounds were treated.

But not hers.

They let her bleed.

They let her suffer.

And yet, she didn’t die.

Why?

A chill ran down her spine, but she pushed the thought aside. There wasn’t time. She had a sliver of an opportunity—one she wouldn’t waste. When the scientists turned away, leaving her for just a moment, she moved.

Silent, careful. Years of navigating exhaustion in the hospital had taught her how to act like she wasn’t there, how to slip past people unnoticed. A storage unit sat in the corner, left slightly ajar. Inside, she found what she was looking for—clean clothes. A fresh set of jumpsuits, the same kind they forced all the children to wear. She grabbed two. One for MC. One for Caleb. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Something they could have. Something she could give.

Because they had been here since they were small. Because they had suffered more than just a paragraph of backstory. Because she couldn’t change their fate, but she could do this much. No one noticed as she slipped back to their holding cell. No one stopped her as she tucked the stolen clothes under her arms, her heart pounding against her ribs.

She survived another day.

But the question lingered, gnawing at the back of her mind.

Why were they pushing her so far? Why were they trying to break her when the others were kept just stable enough?

And why, no matter how much she suffered, did she keep coming back?

She clutched the stolen clothes tightly as she approached Caleb and MC, who sat huddled together in their usual corner. The dim light of their cell cast shadows across their tired faces, their bodies stiff from exhaustion and mistrust. MC looked up first, her wide eyes flickering with a cautious sort of hope. Caleb, however, kept his gaze trained on her, unreadable, protective. She stopped just short of them, kneeling to their level. Carefully, she placed the folded jumpsuits between them.

"Here," she said, keeping her voice soft but steady. "They’re clean. You should change."

MC’s fingers twitched, reaching out before stopping herself.

Caleb didn’t move. His sharp eyes flicked from her to the clothes, then back again, suspicion carved into every tense muscle in his small frame. "Where did you get these?"

She exhaled, unsurprised. Of course, he wouldn’t trust it. Wouldn’t trust her. Not yet. Maybe not ever. She glanced down at her own jumpsuit, the one they had quietly swapped onto her when she had collapsed, the one that wasn’t torn and bloodied anymore.

"You did it for me," she murmured. "So let me do this for you."

MC inhaled sharply. Caleb’s fingers curled into his knees. For a long, weighted moment, no one moved. Then, finally, Caleb reached forward. Not quickly. Not eagerly. But he took the clothes. A breath of relief loosened the tightness in her chest. She had won a little ground.

//

The screams tore through the walls. High-pitched, raw, full of agony. MC’s screams. The sound sent a visceral shudder through her, but she wasn’t the only one. Caleb sat against the cold metal wall, his knees pulled up to his chest, his head bowed as if making himself smaller would somehow lessen the sound. But it didn’t. Nothing could. His fingers dug into his arms, gripping tight enough to leave marks, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. Then she saw it—his shoulders trembling.

Not just from fear. From helplessness. From the kind of suffering a child should never have to endure. She didn’t think. She just moved. Carefully, hesitantly, she reached out and took his hand. His fingers flinched beneath hers, his entire body stiffening as if the contact startled him. But he didn’t pull away. She didn’t say anything. What could she say? That it would be okay? That MC would come back? That they wouldn’t break her?

They both knew that would be a lie.

So she simply held his hand. Small. Cold. Trembling. It wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. But it was all she could give.

//

She sat in the dimness of their cell, cradling her own arm, watching as the bruises from today’s experiment faded before her eyes. It wasn’t natural. She should be hurting. Barely moving. But every time they pushed her to the brink, she came back faster, like her body refused to stay broken. A shiver ran down her spine.

Why?

She had noticed the difference early on. How they never bandaged her the way they did Caleb or MC. How they left her in worse shape, as if testing something, pushing limits she didn’t know she had. And now she knew why.

She could regenerate.

Her fingers pressed into her arm, watching the skin knit itself together, healing what should have taken days in mere hours.

Her chest ached—not from pain, but from something heavier as she glanced at the other two.

MC was curled up on the cot beside her, asleep but tense even in unconsciousness. Caleb sat with his arms around his knees, face unreadable, but the way his fingers twitched against the fabric of his jumpsuit told her he was still on edge.

And the scars—so many of them. Their arms, their legs, the ones she knew were hidden beneath their clothes. Proof of every experiment, every torment.

She wanted to do something.

Could she?

Her body healed itself, but… could she use it to heal others? The thought hit her like a lightning strike. Her breath hitched as she swallowed down the spark of hope, cautious but desperate.

Please.

She clenched her fists, forcing herself to stay still as the weight of that possibility settled in her chest. She had no power here. No way to fight. But if she could do this—if she could help them even a little—Maybe she wouldn’t be so helpless after all.

//

She hesitated before speaking, fingers curling into the tattered fabric of her jumpsuit. “I… I think I can heal people.” MC, who had been sitting beside her, lifted her head slightly, eyes wide with something between curiosity and disbelief.

Caleb, however, stiffened. His purple eyes locked onto her, unreadable. “What?”

She took a deep breath. “I’ve been noticing it for a while. The way my injuries disappear overnight, how I recover too fast. I think—no, I know —I can heal. And if I can heal myself… maybe I can heal you, too.”

Silence.

MC clutched her own arms, glancing at Caleb. There was hope in her gaze, the kind that cut deep—hope that should never exist in a place like this. But Caleb’s stare hardened. His grip on MC’s wrist tightened ever so slightly, as if shielding her from something dangerous. “No.”

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re not using it on her first.” His voice was firm, protective, his whole body tense like a shield between her and MC. “If you’re wrong, if it does something bad—” He shook his head. “You do it on me first.”

Her breath caught. She understood. He still didn’t trust her. Not fully. Not yet. But he trusted himself to take the risk. Something ached deep inside her chest.

“…Okay,” she whispered.

Slowly, Caleb shifted, extending his arm toward her. She reached for it carefully, her small hands hovering over the deep gash near his elbow. The skin was torn, dark and bruised, a painful souvenir from their last test.

She exhaled, concentrating.

Her fingers pressed lightly against his arm, and she willed it—willed whatever force kept healing her to extend beyond herself, to reach out, to help. At first, nothing happened. Then, warmth—gentle, spreading from her fingertips, sinking into his skin. It moved through torn flesh like unseen threads weaving him back together. The wound knit itself shut. Slow, then faster, until only smooth, unbroken skin remained. Her breath caught.

It worked .

A choked sound left her throat. Before she knew it, tears blurred her vision.

“I can help you,” she whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief, with overwhelming relief. “I can help you.”

MC let out a gasp, her small fingers reaching for Caleb’s arm in awe. Caleb himself stared, as if he couldn’t quite believe it. He ran his fingertips over where the wound had been, his expression unreadable. And then, for the first time since she arrived in this hellhole, something in his guarded eyes softened. It wasn’t trust—not yet. But it was the first crack in the walls he had built around himself. And MC—MC, who had once shied away from her, who used to cling only to Caleb—scooted closer. She reached for her, hesitating for just a second before curling up against her side and hugging her. Like a younger sister. Her chest tightened as she wrapped an arm around MC’s shoulders, holding her close. For the first time in this world, she didn’t feel so alone.

She had them .

And she swore, she swore , she would do anything to keep them safe.

But the moment was short-lived. The next morning, everything changed. When the guards came for them, they didn’t take her for testing. Instead, they inspected MC and Caleb. Their eyes narrowed. Their hands moved fast, taking notes, whispering among themselves. And then— One of them turned, locking their gaze on her. A chill ran down her spine. Before she could react, they grabbed her arms and yanked her forward.

“Where are you taking her?” MC’s voice was small, panicked.

She struggled, twisting in their grasp. “Wait—!”

Caleb shot up from the cot, his entire body tense with fury. “Let her go!”

No answers.

No explanations.

The guards dragged her toward the door, her heartbeat roaring in her ears. She looked back. MC, eyes wide, fear glistening. Caleb, fists clenched, jaw tight, helpless . And then—

The door slammed shut between them.

And she never saw them again.

Chapter Text

She smoothed out the crisp white fabric of her nurse’s uniform, fingers lingering on the neatly pressed folds. The insignia of the Deepspace Aviation Administration gleamed on her shoulder, a stark contrast against the sterile white. A symbol of everything she had fought for. Survived for.

Her reflection in the mirror stares back, unfamiliar.

Older. Stronger. A far cry from the desperate child who had once curled in the corners of Ever’s cold, metal floors, trembling in the silence between screams. The hollowed-out thing they had molded her into. 

She adjusted the collar of her uniform, but her hands froze mid-motion. The scars weren’t visible, but they were there. Woven into her bones, etched into the spaces between heartbeats.

She exhaled sharply, shaking her head. Not now.

Yet the memories slithered in, unbidden.

The cold bite of restraints against her wrists. The bright surgical lights overhead. The low murmur of voices. "How many times do you think she can recover?" A hand pressing down on her forearm. The sharp glint of metal. "Let's find out."

Her grip tightened around the edge of the sink. The phantom sensation of steel slicing through flesh crawled up her arm, so real she almost expected to see blood bloom along her skin.

They had started small.

A cut here. A puncture there. Watching, waiting, taking notes. When the wounds closed seamlessly before their eyes, they escalated.

First a fingertip. Then a whole finger. Then a hand. A limb. A test of enduranc e, they called it, a sterile, clinical term for tearing her apart and putting her back together again.

And when that wasn’t enough, they opened her up.

Harvested pieces of her—organs, tissues, the stem cells that kept dragging her back from the brink, over and over again. The pain had become something beyond pain, something ceaseless, something that devoured her until she forgot what it was like not to feel it.

Her Evol had healed her every time. That was the point. To see how far they could push her before she stopped regenerating .

But they had never gotten their answer.

She had never stopped.

A shudder wracked through her body, her knuckles whitening around the sink. Stop . She forced herself to breathe, to look at herself, to ground herself in the present.

She was here now.

She was alive. She was free. Well, for now.

Her reflection wavered as she blinked back the burn in her eyes. The past had already taken too much from her. She wouldn’t let it take this, too. With one last slow breath, she straightened her shoulders, smoothing down the fabric of her uniform once more. The white was still pristine. Untouched.

Just like she had never been .

She turned away from the mirror, stepping forward, away from the ghosts clinging to her heels.

The soft hum of fluorescent lights filled the room as she fastened her ID badge to her uniform, the motion practiced, almost mechanical. The past clawed at the edges of her mind, whispering, tugging, begging to be remembered .

But she wouldn’t give it the satisfaction.

Not today.

She reached for her gloves, slipping them on with a quiet snap. The cool, synthetic material pressed against her fingers, grounding her in the present. Here. Now. In a place where she wasn’t strapped down, where no one was watching her body mend itself with the clinical detachment of a scientist studying a specimen. She wasn’t a doctor still but she likes being a nurse.

Her dormitory was small but clean. The faint hum of Deepspace Aviation’s systems vibrated beneath the floor, a constant reminder that she was aboard one of the most advanced fleets in the galaxy. A long way from Ever. From the operating tables. From the hands that had pried her open, taken what they wanted, and stitched her back together just to do it all over again.

She swallowed, pressing a hand to her stomach. No scars. Not a single mark left behind.

Her Evol had seen to that.

But she remembered. Her body remembered. The feeling of something being taken . Of waking up, lightheaded and hollow, knowing that she was missing something vital, but never knowing what.

She clenched her jaw, pushing the thought away. You’re here. You made it.

Steadying herself, she grabbed her datapad and took one last glance at her reflection. A nurse. A part of the Deepspace fleet. Someone with a purpose beyond being a subject in someone else’s experiment.

She exhaled and stepped out into the hall.

The station was alive with movement, people in uniform walking briskly with purpose. Engineers, pilots, medical staff—everyone had their place. She fell into step among them, the rhythmic clack of boots on the polished floor an odd comfort.

As she passed by the viewport, the vastness of space stretched beyond the reinforced glass. Distant stars flickered, tiny specks in an endless black sea. She had spent so many years in a cage, in white walls and cold steel. Now, she was standing in the middle of infinity.

A small, wry smile tugged at her lips. If only the kid she had been could see her now. She turned a corner, heading toward the infirmary—

And collided with someone.

A firm, solid presence. Warm. The impact sent her stumbling back a step, but hands caught her shoulders, steadying her before she could fall.

"Whoa there, careful."

The voice was light, amused. Familiar.

She looked up—

And forgot how to breathe.

The man standing before her was taller than her now, broader, stronger. His uniform fit snugly over his frame, highlighting the sharp lines of muscle, the defined cut of his abdomen beneath the tight fabric. The open collar of his flight suit revealed just a glimpse of his collarbone, the faint sheen of sweat along his throat.

Caleb.

It had been years, but she would know him anywhere. The same piercing golden eyes, the same slight curve of his lips when he smiled—except now that smile was polished, practiced. A mask. Her heart stuttered, pounding against her ribs. He’s here. He’s real. He’s—

"Sorry about that," he said, stepping back, the warmth of his hands leaving her shoulders. His gaze flickered over her uniform before meeting her eyes again. "You alright, Nurse…?"

He doesn’t recognize her. The realization hit like a punch to the gut. The years had changed them both, but she had thought—hoped—that something might linger. A flicker of familiarity, a shadow of recognition in his eyes. But there was nothing. Just polite curiosity.

She swallowed, forcing a smile. "Yeah, I’m fine. I should’ve watched where I was going."

He gave a small chuckle, casual, easygoing. "Happens. These halls can be a maze."

For a second, she just stared at him, drinking in the sight of him, the way the dim overhead lighting cast sharp shadows over his features. The boy she had known was gone. In his place stood a soldier, a pilot, a man with honed reflexes and a body carved by years of battle.

He was the Caleb she had seen through a screen.

The Caleb she had once adored.

She had spent countless hours watching him, admiring the steadfast devotion he had for her. No— not her. The game’s MC. The one he had sworn to protect, to love, through every hardship. And yet, here he was. Right in front of her.

"Well, be careful," he said, stepping past her, his voice lighter now. "Wouldn’t want you getting hurt."

Then, without a second glance, he was gone. The sounds of the station filled the space he left behind, the distant chatter of personnel, the soft hum of the ship’s core. But to her, everything felt muted.

She exhaled slowly. He didn’t remember. Of course, he didn’t. Their childhood had been a nightmare, a blur of pain and loss. Why would he want to remember it? She should be glad he doesn’t. She forced herself to move, pushing forward, back into the rhythm of the station. She had waited so long to see him again.

She just hadn’t realized how much it would fill her with even more longing instead of the satisfaction of knowing he was alive and well. 

How greedy.

//

The hum of the aviation base was a steady rhythm beneath her feet—a world of movement, mechanics, and precision. She had always known he would be here. The game had told her as much. But knowing was different from seeing.

She spotted him whenever she could, lingering just out of reach, a silent observer in his orbit. From the upper levels of the hangar, she watched as he ran drills with his squadron, the sun catching on the dark strands of his hair, sweat trailing down the sharp lines of his jaw. His uniform fit him like a second skin, the sleek black of his flight suit clinging to the lean muscle she had only ever seen through a screen.

He's really here.

She watched him between rounds, sleeves pushed up, forearms dusted with grease as he worked on his plane. The Caleb she knew—the Caleb from her memories—had always been reckless, throwing himself into battle with little regard for his own safety. Some things hadn't changed.

And yet, everything had.

He laughed with his squadmates, the sound bright but distant, a careful mask. When he spoke, his words were deliberate, measured, never revealing too much. She noticed how he kept his back to the wall, how his gaze flickered toward the exits even in casual conversation. A man still living in the shadows of his past.

It hurt that he didn’t remember her.

But she had time.

Whenever he came to the medical wing, she made sure he was met with warmth—just enough to extend an invisible thread between them. A smile, a touch of familiarity, never too much. Just enough to make him wonder.

“You again,” Caleb drawled as he stepped into the med bay, rolling up his sleeve to reveal a shallow gash along his forearm. His voice carried the same easy charm he always used, but she caught the way his gaze flickered over her, as if memorizing too much.

Her fingers clenched around the gauze before she forced herself to relax. “You should be more careful,” she murmured, dabbing antiseptic onto the gash along his forearm.

Caleb didn’t flinch, didn’t react to the sting at all. “It’s nothing,” he said, voice measured, distant.

She pressed her lips together, trying to find something to hold onto in the conversation, something that would make him look at her without the polite detachment in his gaze. “Still, even small injuries can get infected. You push yourself too hard.”

He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he glanced down at her hands as she wrapped the bandage, watching the way she worked. It wasn’t appreciation. It was an assessment.

“I’m used to it,” he finally said.

She tried to smile, to keep the warmth in her voice. “That doesn’t mean you have to be.”

He exhaled quietly, not quite a sigh, but something close. “You’re thorough.”

She brightened at the almost-compliment. “I try to be. It’s my job, after all.”

He rolled his sleeve back down, the conversation slipping away before she could hold onto it. “Thank you for the treatment.” His words were polite, perfectly neutral. Then, before she could say anything else—before she could make him stay just a little longer—he turned and walked away.

Every time.

Every time she tried to get him to warm up, he shut her down with practiced ease. He wasn’t cruel, wasn’t rude, but he kept her at a distance so effortlessly, it almost made her wonder if she had imagined the boy he used to be.

//

“You know,” one of his squadmates drawled, leaning back against the locker room bench, “I think that hot nurse is into you.”

Caleb, toweling off after a long day of training flights, barely spared him a glance. “What?”

“The one in the medical wing,” another chimed in, grinning as he stripped off his flight suit. “Shiny hair, sharp eyes. Always real friendly when you walk in. Warmer than she is with anyone else.”

“Way warmer,” the first agreed, nudging his friend with an elbow. “Man, the way she looks at you? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were the one who hung the stars on the sky for her.”

Caleb froze, just for a second.

They didn’t notice. They were still laughing, tossing casual jokes back and forth, but his mind had already sharpened around those words. She did look at him like that. Like he had been someone important to her. Like she had known him before. But that was impossible. His life had been battlefields, cockpit glass, and the endless silence of the skies. He would remember if someone had looked at him like that.

Wouldn’t he?

Caleb threw the towel onto the bench, tone even as he said, “Maybe she’s just trying to get to know me.”

One of them whistled. “That’s what I’m saying, man. You’re a decorated ace pilot, you’re good-looking, you’ve got that whole ‘mysterious and brooding’ thing going on—”

“I do not.”

“You absolutely do,” the other snorted. “Point is, she’s obviously into you.”

Caleb thought about that. Considered, for a brief moment, that maybe she was just interested in him. That maybe her eyes lighting up when she saw him, her lingering stares, her warmth—maybe that was just simple attraction.

But it didn’t feel right. It wasn’t like the admiration he was used to. Wasn’t like the casual flirtation that came with his job, with his reputation. There was something off about it. Like she wanted something more than just getting close to him. And Caleb wasn’t about to let his guard down to find out what.

He recalls their first encounter.

He didn’t see her coming. Which was odd. His instincts were sharper than the regular person. Bumping into her was alarming enough, now that he reflects on it.

One moment, the corridor was empty, just the usual sterile white walls and the scent of antiseptic lingering in the air. The next, there was a body colliding into his, light but forceful, like a gust of wind slamming into something solid.

“Ah—sorry!” Her voice was breathless, startled, and when he glanced down, ready with a polite dismissal, he caught sight of her face. Her eyes—he had seen that look before. Not in her, no. But in others.

Recognition.

It wasn’t the wide-eyed admiration he was used to. Not the kind that came from being a fighter pilot, a soldier, a survivor of battles most wouldn’t dare to dream of. It wasn’t the quiet, composed professionalism of the medical staff either. It was something warmer. Too warm. Like she knew him. Like she had been waiting to see him again. His instinct sharpened. His mind, always trained to assess and react, caught on the oddity of it.

“I should be the one apologizing,” he said, stepping back, polite, unreadable. “Didn’t see you there.”

She was still looking at him. A fraction too long.

“Be careful,” he added, voice smooth, carefully leveled. And then, before she could respond—before she could try to make this something more than a passing interaction—he left.

He didn’t look back. But he felt her eyes on him

Those eyes. Those eyes were always on him. 

At first, he thought it was just a coincidence. The medical wing was close enough to the hangars—plenty of pilots came and went, plenty of engineers, mechanics, officers. It wasn’t strange to cross paths with someone in uniform.

But she wasn’t just passing by. She was always… there. Lingering at the edges, just far enough that it could be written off as chance. Watching him train, watching him check over his aircraft, watching him interact with the other pilots. Never interrupting. Never drawing attention. But he felt her gaze.

Caleb was good at reading people. He had to be. And she was watching him not like a stranger, but like someone who knew him. That didn’t sit right with him. He wasn’t the type to entertain paranoia, but he also wasn’t reckless enough to ignore his instincts. There was something off about her.

And it only got worse when she started trying to get closer.

He had been expecting her approach.

It started subtly—warmer smiles, lingering a second longer when he came in for treatment, casual comments meant to ease him into conversation.

Most people in the medical wing kept a professional detachment. She didn’t. She was too warm. Too eager to close the distance.

“Another long day?” she asked one afternoon, reaching for the antiseptic as he sat on the medical cot.

He didn’t answer immediately. Watched her instead.

“I’m used to it,” he finally said.

Her smile was soft, understanding. “That doesn’t mean you have to be.”

There it was again—that familiarity. That way she spoke to him like she had the right to care.

He studied her hands as she worked, gentle, precise. Too precise.

“You’re thorough,” he commented, voice neutral.

She brightened slightly. “I try to be. It’s my job, after all.”

He let the silence stretch. Let her hope for something more.

Then he rolled his sleeve down and stood. “Thank you for the treatment.”

And then, like always, he left.

But in his mind, the pieces were shifting, coming together.

No records. No past. No history.

He had looked into her already. Caleb wasn’t a man who believed in coincidences. Especially not ones that aligned this perfectly. He sat in his quarters, the glow of his terminal screen casting sharp shadows across his face. He had run her name through the system, cross-checked medical records, training history, employment logs—everything he could get his hands on.

And he came up with just enough.

Her file started when she was eighteen. A small, unremarkable school name. A record of passing the nursing boards. A few brief internships before landing her current position at the Deepspace Aviation Administration.

It was clean. Too clean.

No records of childhood. No guardianship history. No previous medical records, despite working in the medical field—just a perfectly curated background that allowed her to exist in this system without raising questions.

To most, it would be just enough to accept. To Caleb, it was a red flag.

It wasn’t the gaps themselves that unsettled him—it was the precision of them. The way her file provided just enough credentials to make her presence valid, but nothing else. No details, no connections, no signs of the messy, complicated trails that real people left behind.

It was like she had appeared at eighteen, fully formed, ready to work. That didn’t happen naturally. That happened when someone made it happen. His fingers hovered over the keys, muscles tense. The timing was too perfect.

For years, he had been quietly investigating Ever’s remnants—chasing whispers, following dead ends, piecing together scraps of information that suggested they weren’t entirely gone. And now—suddenly— she appeared. A nurse stationed precisely where he was, with no past, no verifiable history, and an immediate, unshakable recognition of him.

Maybe Ever had caught on. Maybe they knew he was searching, and this was their response. A warning. A plant. Someone meant to monitor him, to keep him within reach.

And she was close.

Too comfortable in this system. Moving through it like she belonged, like she had every right to be here. Skilled, knowledgeable, respected—but also placed exactly where she needed to be.

Caleb had seen infiltration tactics before. He had been trained to recognize them. And this felt like one. His jaw tightened. She wasn’t just some pretty nurse with a lingering stare and too-warm smiles. She was something else. And he was going to find out exactly what.

//

While Caleb scrutinized every detail of her past, dissecting the gaps in her records like they were landmines waiting to detonate, she was preoccupied with something far simpler— how to be close to him again.

She had always known that he might not remember her. That was fine. She could live with that. People forgot things. She never could, but normal people did. And Caleb—he had been through so much. She didn’t blame him for forgetting some nameless girl who once sat beside him in the cold, sterile halls of Ever. That was okay.

Because she was here now, and if she could just stay in his life, if she could talk to him, spend time with him, slowly rebuild what had been lost—then everything would be fine. She watched him whenever she could, careful never to intrude on his space but lingering just long enough to catch glimpses of him in motion. The way he moved across the tarmac, all fluid efficiency as he ran checks on his plane. The way he interacted with the other pilots—his words polite, measured, but never truly close. The way he carried himself with quiet confidence, as if the sky itself answered only to him.

She caught those moments in pieces. A stolen glance through the medical wing’s windows as he trained in the distance. A fleeting exchange when he came in for minor injuries—bruised knuckles, a gash along his forearm. She was always a little too warm, a little too eager to help, thinking that maybe, if she was kind enough, familiar enough, he would stop looking at her like she was a stranger.

He doesn’t trust me yet. That’s fine. I just have to work at it.

Trust wasn’t something you got overnight. It was something you built, piece by piece, like the slow reconstruction of a fractured bone (well that doesn’t apply to her, hers only lasts a good few minutes).

If she could gain it back, then maybe she could be part of his life again. Maybe, one day, he would let her in. It wasn’t a problem. She just had to be patient.

She just had to try.

Chapter Text

The sheets tangled around her, damp with sweat.

Pain gripped her first, curling like a vice around her limbs, sinking into the marrow of her bones. A sensation so familiar it no longer startled her, just another ghost pressing in from the past. It lived there, waiting, biding its time beneath her skin. Even in sleep, it found her.

Her breath hitched. She twisted in bed, fingers clutching the thin fabric of her nightshirt, seeking something solid, something real.

"Do you remember those two kids from Subject Ward C?"

A flash of white light. The sterile gleam of steel instruments. The scent of antiseptic, thick in her throat.

"The ones that disappeared?"

No. Don’t listen. Don’t think about it. Don’t—

"Yeah. The successful prototypes. They escaped years ago. Can you believe that? Must have had help."

Her pulse stopped.

Escaped.

Years ago.

They got out.

Her vision blurred. The weight of a thousand memories crashed into her all at once. She gasped awake.

The walls felt too white. Too stark. Too much like a cell. Shadows stretched long and jagged across the ceiling, shifting with her uneven breaths. The nightmare clung to her, thick and suffocating, its claws still hooked into her skin.

Not antiseptic, just the crisp night air filtering in through the open window. Not steel and restraints, just the soft mattress beneath her, blankets tangled around her legs.

Not Ever.

Not anymore.

She pushed the covers aside, feet pressing into the cold floor. The contrast grounded her, but not enough. The room was too small. Too quiet. The walls pressed in, phantom hands tightening around her throat. She needed air.

Her cardigan hung over the chair, fingers finding the familiar softness as she pulled it on. She slipped into her shoes—habit, instinct, readiness to run. The door clicked open under her touch, the quiet hum of the facility's night cycle settling in the silence.

The corridors stretched empty before her, bathed in dim blue light. No guards. No restraints. No disembodied voices studying her like an anomaly in a petri dish. Just silence.

Just freedom.

She exhaled, moving slow, steady, toward the outside world. The night swallowed her whole. Vast and unbroken, the sky stretched wide and endless, stars scattered like shattered glass across an infinite abyss. It was real. It was open. It was more than she had dared to dream of, once.

She tipped her head back, staring into the cosmos. Years spent beneath artificial lighting had dulled her connection to the sky, her sense of time dictated by shifts and experiments rather than sunrises and sunsets. Now, with nothing but the wind brushing against her skin and the stars above, she let the vastness settle into her bones.

Her fingers brushed against her wrist, seeking the frayed fabric there.

A bracelet. Worn, thin, braided from scraps long ago. It should have fallen apart by now, yet it held together, stubborn and unyielding, much like the memory it carried.

She had taken it off for work earlier—hospital policy, sterile environments, nothing unnecessary allowed—but the moment her shift ended, she had slipped it back on. Where it belonged.

Her thumb traced the delicate threads, lips pressing into a thin line.

They had made this for her.

Torn their own clothes, the only things they had, just to bandage her wounds when she had been too weak to do it herself. Caleb’s shirt. MC’s sleeves. Their only belongings, sacrificed without hesitation. They had nothing, yet they had given her what little they could. Because back then, she had meant something to them. Her breath shuddered in her chest. She clutched the bracelet against her heart, the warmth of her skin soaking into the worn fabric, and let herself remember.

She could gain his trust again. She could find her place beside him once more.

It didn’t matter that he had forgotten her. It didn’t matter if she had to start all over. She wasn’t afraid of the work it would take, the patience, the waiting. As long as he was here, as long as she had this second chance, she would make sure they never lost each other again. 

Sleep did not come easily to Caleb. When it did, it did not last.

He saw her die again.

The dream always started the same. Smoke curled thick in the air, acrid and suffocating, filling his lungs with the scent of burning metal. A hallway stretched before him, walls trembling with distant explosions. Footsteps pounded against the ground, desperate and uneven, too slow. He turned, reaching out, a scream tearing from his throat—

Too late.

Blood. A hand falling limp. A voice calling his name, breaking apart before it could reach him.

He never made it in time.

He always woke before he could hold her.

His eyes snapped open, breath shuddering in his chest. His fingers curled into the sheets, damp with sweat, body tense with the remnants of a battle he had fought too many times before.

It wasn’t real. Not this time.

But it had been once.

He pushed upright, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. The walls felt too close, the air too thick, the phantom scent of smoke still lingering in his lungs. He needed air.

The facility was silent at this hour, the glow of emergency lights casting long, shifting shadows across the walls. He moved without thought, each step precise, careful, instinct woven into his very bones.

The night opened up before him as he stepped outside, the crisp air biting at his skin. He inhaled deeply, forcing the tension from his limbs, his heartbeat still unsteady beneath his ribs. The stars stretched above, distant and indifferent.

A figure stood beneath them.

He stilled, breath caught in his throat.

She was standing at the edge of the courtyard, her head tilted back, eyes fixed on the sky. The night wind teased at the loose strands of her hair, the fabric of her cardigan shifting with the breeze. For a moment, she looked ethereal—weightless, untethered, something not quite of this world.

Something beautiful.

It struck him, deep and sudden. If he had not already known her, if suspicion did not twist like a knife in his gut, he might have thought her a goddess. But her frame was heavy, burdened by something unseen, even as her presence flickered at the edge of his memory like a dream half-remembered.

A warning curled through his mind. He should turn away. Let her be. He did not want to be noticed. Did not want to engage.

But the pull was there, undeniable.

The words left him before he could stop them.

"What are you doing?"

She startled slightly, turning toward him, and for a moment, he saw the way her eyes lit up. Like she had been waiting for him. Like she was happy he was here.

"I couldn’t sleep," she admitted, a small laugh escaping, breathless and giddy. "Nightmares."

His chest tightened. Another coincidence. Another thread in a web that felt too carefully spun. His expression did not change, but something inside him went still. She looked at him as if his presence was something to be delighted in, as if the fact that he had spoken first meant something. And maybe it did. But he couldn't trust it. He couldn't trust her.

So he let his features soften just slightly, just enough.

"Yeah," he said, voice low, "I know the feeling."

He let the lie settle between them like a shared secret. Her body relaxed just a little, easing into his words, into the offered piece of himself. Good.

"I used to have nightmares as a kid," he continued, voice dipping into something quieter, something almost confessional. "But they were different back then. Not about anything real. Just stupid, childish things. Shadows in the corners of my room. Things under my bed."

The way she listened to him—it was rapt, like she was absorbing every syllable, tucking it away for safekeeping. But then, just for the briefest flicker of a second— A hesitation. A twitch at the corner of her brow. Almost imperceptible, but not to him.

Ah.

She knew. He had fed her a lie, and she had noticed. But she did not call him on it. She did not react, did not press, did not pry. Instead, she offered a quiet, polite smile.

"That sounds difficult," she said softly. "I hope they stopped, eventually."

Perfectly measured. Perfectly gentle. The kind of response one would give if they knew the truth but chose not to acknowledge it. Interesting. His gaze lingered, taking in the way she held herself. How much had she already seen through him? How much was she choosing not to say? Well. Two could play that game.

"What about you?" he asked, tone even, unreadable. "What kind of nightmares keep you up?"

She hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second. If he had not been watching so closely, he might have missed it. Then, she smiled, but it did not quite reach her eyes.

"Just old memories," she said lightly. "I used to live near the ocean. My parents always warned me about the deep, but I never listened. I loved the water." She exhaled, almost wistful. "Sometimes, in my dreams, I fall in and never come back up."

Lies. Every word, every carefully crafted detail—fabricated. Just like his. His jaw tightened. They were both pretending. Both spinning stories out of nothing. Both watching, waiting. 

The silence between them stretched, thick with unspoken words and hidden intentions. Caleb's eyes narrowed just slightly, his gaze intense and sharp, as if he were dissecting every motion she made, every word she said, weighing them with the precision of someone who had spent far too long watching, never truly trusting.

Her heart fluttered, an uncomfortable weight settling in her chest. He was watching her too closely. His eyes were so focused, as if searching for cracks, flaws—something that would tell him that she wasn’t who she claimed to be. His expression was unreadable, but there was something about it, a tightening of his jaw, a flicker in his eyes that made her skin prickle.

It was subtle—too subtle—but she could feel it. The way his gaze lingered, just a little too long, as though he were waiting for her to slip up. His hands, too, were tense at his sides, ready to react, ready to spring into action at the slightest provocation.

She could sense it—the venom in his stare, a hidden distrust that slithered beneath the surface, poisoning the air between them. It made her stomach churn, a mixture of confusion and unease bubbling up inside her. What had she done to make him look at her like that?

Her smile faltered, and she forced herself to keep it in place. Her fingers tightened around the edge of her cardigan, the fabric cool against her fingertips as her mind raced, trying to piece together why Caleb, of all people, would have such a look of suspicion in his eyes.

Had she said something wrong?

He was testing her, she realized with a sudden sharp clarity.

He was waiting, hoping for her to slip, to reveal the lie beneath the truth, to show him something he could use to break her down. Maybe he wasn’t just suspicious of her because of her past, because he found her familiar. Maybe he was more afraid of what she might be hiding. Or worse—maybe he didn’t trust her at all, not truly, not anymore. She didn’t know which was worse.

But the silence between them had taken on a weight that felt almost suffocating. Every moment that passed without her speaking felt like she was sinking deeper into some unknown pit—caught in a web of lies, both her own and his.

"Old memories," she repeated, the words coming out softer this time. The lie was smooth on her tongue, like it was something she had said a thousand times before. The rehearsed nature of it made it easier, but it also made her stomach twist, a pang of guilt cutting through her. But what else could she say? How could she share the truth when she knew he wouldn’t believe it?

Caleb’s gaze never wavered. There was something cold in his eyes now, a sharpness to his focus that made her wonder if he could see right through her, if he could tell she was lying. The faint tremor in her hands was enough of a giveaway, but she fought to keep herself steady.

"Falling into the ocean," he murmured, his tone thoughtful, like he was weighing her words. "That sounds… like something a child would dream."

It wasn’t the way he said it—it was the way his eyes flicked to her, calculating, as if he was searching for something deeper in her expression. The way he was looking at her made her feel like she was on the verge of being exposed, naked in front of him, every defense laid bare.

Her chest tightened. She had never been so aware of herself, of her movements, of her breathing. She was too aware of how fragile the moment felt.

Caleb was looking at her like she was something he needed to figure out, something he needed to control. His suspicion hung in the air like an unspoken truth, sharp and biting, and it made her wonder just how much of her he truly saw—or if he was simply seeing what he wanted to see, what he feared.

She shifted, uncomfortable under his gaze. She had always been good at hiding her emotions, good at keeping things hidden behind a mask, but something about Caleb’s piercing stare made it harder to keep up the act. She could feel herself unraveling just a little with every passing second.

But she couldn’t let him know that.

She couldn’t let him see how unsettled he made her, how much his doubt hurt.

So she smiled again, keeping it polite, keeping it light. "I suppose we all have our nightmares," she said, forcing the words out with a calm she didn’t feel. "Sometimes, they’re just… fragments of things that never happened."

Her heart beat louder in her ears. Caleb was still watching her. His gaze was so intense it felt like it could burn through her. The tension was palpable, thickening the air between them.

Caleb was suffocating. His chest felt tight, his mind racing, tangled in the mess of his own thoughts as he listened to her talk. The words, they sounded so… rehearsed. Too smooth, too perfect to be real. She was lying. She had to be.

Everything about her story—the details about her childhood, the fabricated tales of her parents and the ocean—it felt like a veil. A thin, fragile mask she was desperately trying to hold up, hoping he wouldn’t notice.

But he did. Every word that came out of her mouth, every little detail she added to the puzzle, only made the picture less believable. It wasn’t just the story itself. It was the way she delivered it, the way her hands trembled just a little too much when she spoke of the ocean, the way her eyes darted just the slightest bit, as if trying to read his reaction.

He was used to reading people. It was his job—no, it was a survival mechanism. He could read a room, a person, a situation with terrifying accuracy, and what he was seeing right now, with her, wasn’t just suspicious . It was wrong .

He felt a knot tighten in his stomach, a frustration he couldn’t shake off. He should’ve done this in the shadows, watched from afar like he always did, keeping his distance, gathering the pieces of her puzzle slowly. But no—he had let his guard down, even just a little. He had wanted to see her, to hear her, and now… now he couldn’t stop himself from doubting everything.

He should have been more careful. He should have remained the distant, detached observer. But there was something about her that unsettled him, something he couldn’t shake off, no matter how hard he tried.

And that only made him more suspicious.

Her lies— they were so obvious —and yet he was standing here, pretending to buy them, pretending to nod along as if he didn’t see the cracks in her story, as if he wasn’t feeling the tension in the air, thick and heavy, like it was about to snap. He was supposed to be cold. Calculated. Detached. But all he could feel right now was this aching, gnawing need to shake her , to demand the truth. To ask her who she really was, what her game was, why she was here, what her intentions were.

But he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Instead, he let the silence drag on, an uncomfortable weight pressing down on him. His heart raced, pulse quickening as her polite, comforting words washed over him. She was playing her part so well. Too well .

His hands clenched at his sides, the urge to press her, to see if she would break, was almost overwhelming. But there was something else—something deeper—that gnawed at him, twisting in his chest. He had spent too long in this damn game of trust and suspicion. He didn’t want to be a fool again.

He watched her closely. Her eyes were wide, innocent, but there was something behind them that didn’t match. Something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Her smile, too, seemed too practiced, too perfect for a moment like this. A moment where she should have been rattled, shaken by the pressure of his questions, but instead, she held steady.

That only made him more certain.

She was hiding something.

And damn it, he hated how much it bothered him.

He took a slow breath, trying to push down the anger rising in his chest. He couldn’t let her see how much she affected him. He couldn’t let her know he was cracking, slowly, piece by piece.

But this game wasn’t over yet.

"Why do you always watch me?" he asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them. He hadn’t meant to sound so accusatory, but the question had been on his mind for far too long. The pull she had over him, the way she lingered in the corners of his vision, always so aware of him—it unsettled him more than it should have.

It was meant to be a simple question, a way to prod, to see if she’d react. But the moment the words left his mouth, he knew he had said too much.

She blinked, her eyes widening slightly, and he caught a glimpse of something in them—something fleeting, something vulnerable. 

The rain began to fall, its soft patter against the ground starting slow, then growing heavier, as if the sky itself was mimicking the pressure in her chest. She glanced up, feigning panic as the first few drops splashed against her skin. Her heart raced—this was the moment. The rain, the perfect catalyst for her act.

"Caleb—" she started, her voice trembling just enough to sound real, "we should go inside. The rain—it’s coming down too fast."

Her hands reached out, her fingertips brushing his sleeve as she tugged at him, pretending to be desperate for shelter. But as she looked at him, trying to gauge the response she would receive, she saw something in his stance—something unwavering.

His eyes—violet, cold and sharp—pierced through her. The weight of his gaze held her in place, locking her into the stormy depths of his intensity. He wasn’t moving. Not even an inch.

The rain hit the ground around them like a blanket of cold pressure, but it didn’t touch them.

The air seemed to shift. It wasn’t just the rain, or even the chilly wind that danced through the open night. It was him.

His Evol.

He didn’t even flinch as the rain fell faster. As the world around them blurred in the wet mist, Caleb’s presence only grew stronger. His hand lifted, palm open, and with a subtle flick of his fingers, the droplets paused in mid-air—frozen, suspended. His gravity manipulation stretched into the space between them like a shield, making the rain part around them. The world outside continued its storm, but they were untouched.

He stood before her, unmoving, unfazed, the power radiating from him making her breath hitch. The way his figure filled the space around them, commanding the air itself. His presence was so heavy, so imposing, and yet there was something about it—something dark, something dangerous. Something that made her heart pound in her chest.

His eyes—violet, gleaming like twin shards of amethyst—shifted to her face. She saw something in them then, something that made her skin prickle. The glint in his gaze wasn’t just cold—it was domineering . It was as if the very force of his will could crush anything that stood before him.

She felt a shiver run down her spine.

And then, in that moment, the act crumbled. All the fear, all the panic she had tried so hard to convey shattered beneath his stare. The trembling hands that had reached for him now curled into fists at her sides. She swallowed hard, feeling the weight of her lie press against her chest, the crack forming between the false world she had been trying to create and the one that was breaking through. She couldn’t keep this up. She had wanted to start anew or to get him to remember her slowly on his own, with her help. Not like this, but she had no choice.

"I don’t know," she said, her words betraying her thoughts, her voice quieter than she intended. It wasn’t a confession—it was a breaking. Why was it so hard for her to tell him. Remember me. Remember how I was part of your life. 

The words hung in the air, thick. Caleb didn’t even flinch when she spoke. Instead, he stepped closer, his presence closing the gap between them, and she couldn’t look away from the intensity that swirled in his violet eyes.

"I looked into you," he said, his voice calm, yet threaded with something so dangerous that her blood ran cold. "Squeaky clean records, no family, no history. And people like that…They’re either criminals on the run, or people worse than you can imagine."

The weight of his words sank deep into her chest. They weren’t just accusations—they were truths wrapped in suspicion, and she could feel the pressure building. He wasn’t shouting. He wasn’t demanding answers with violence. But she could feel it—the intensity that radiated from him, the unspoken message that thundered through the air between them: I know what you are.

She couldn’t breathe. Does he remember? But why are his eyes still cold.

Then he said something that made her blood run colder than the rain ever could.

"You know how to treat injuries in ways that don’t match standard training," he murmured, the accusation so quiet, so precise, that she almost didn’t hear it. "Maybe, you don’t notice, but you instinctively check for signs of nerve damage in a way that only someone who has seen extensive human experimentation would." Ever. 

The pieces fell into place for him. And for her.

The realization hit her like a slap across the face. He wasn’t just watching her. He wasn’t just testing her for answers. He was reading her. All this time he had been watching her too. But not out of familiarity, no. Out of suspicion. 

Her throat went dry as he stood there, the air between them crackling with unspoken tension. She could feel it, the weight of his suspicions hanging heavily on her shoulders. The flickering in his eyes—it wasn’t just doubt anymore. It was venom.

Why was he looking at her like this? Why was he regarding her like she was one of them —one of Ever’s monsters—when she wasn’t? She wasn’t like them. She was one of the experiments.

And yet, Caleb's gaze held a suspicion, a suspicion so sharp it cut through the haze of her own thoughts. His eyes bore into her as if she was nothing but a shadow—an enemy. Why, after everything they'd been through together, did he view her this way? It didn’t make sense. Wasn’t she just like him? Wasn’t she a victim too?

The tension between them thickened, but it was different now. This was no longer a test—this was something worse. This was judgment. And it confused her, gnawed at her from the inside, making her breath feel shallow.

He didn’t need to raise his voice. He didn’t need to accuse her directly. The truth of it all (or at least the truth to him). He had already made his decision. He knew what she was—Ever scum, and now, the only thing left was the final, damning words he spoke:

"Stay away from me."

Chapter Text

The void of space is chaos—a battlefield of fire and destruction. Caleb is falling, plummeting fast amidst the wreckage of a dying world. Fragments of metal and stone spiral past him, burning as they are consumed by the atmosphere’s fury. A planet looms behind him, its surface ruptured and breaking apart, explosions tearing through its body like gaping wounds. The brilliance of its final moments paints the dark expanse in streaks of red and gold.

Amid the weightlessness of his descent, something else moves. A hand—outstretched, reaching for him. For a split second, he doesn't think. He only feels. Instinct takes over, a force deeper than memory, deeper than reason. His fingers grasp hers, pulling her close, desperate, urgent.

His violet eyes meet hers. It wasn’t the face of his childhood friend. Not the woman he vowed to love and protect at all cost.

But it doesn’t matter.

A sharp breath catches in his throat, then he surges forward, sealing their lips together as the universe shatters around them.

My soul will always resonate with yours.

Caleb jolts awake.

His breath is uneven, his body tense, his heart hammering as if he’s still plummeting through that endless abyss of fire and destruction. The weight of the dream lingers, pressing against his skin like a phantom touch. He blinks, eyes adjusting to the dim morning light filtering through the blinds.

His room is quiet, save for the faint hum of the station’s systems running in the background. The silence feels heavier than usual, wrapping around him in a way that makes it hard to shake off the remnants of sleep. He runs a hand down his face, exhaling slowly, grounding himself in the present.

It wasn’t a nightmare.

Not the kind he’s used to, at least. There was still destruction—debris, fire, the vast emptiness of space swallowing everything whole. But there was something else. Something unfamiliar.

Satisfaction.

He forces himself out of bed, muscles stiff as he moves through the motions of his morning routine. A splash of cold water against his face does little to wash away the images burned into his mind—the planet crumbling behind him, the way his hand had reached out, unthinking, only to grasp hers . Not the one he was meant to find. Not the one that haunted his past.

Her.

The woman he told to stay away. The woman who looked at him with something other than admiration, something that felt too personal, too genuine.

His grip tightens around the sink’s edge.

It should bother him.

It should infuriate him.

And yet, as he straightens up and stares at his reflection in the mirror, the only thing staring back at him is the unsettling truth—

It doesn’t.

//

Caleb expected relief. He told her to stay away, and for once, she listened. That should be enough.

But when he steps into the medical wing, dragging along a fellow pilot nursing a bruised shoulder, the space feels different. The air carries the same sterile crispness, the walls gleam under the same white light, but something is missing. He tells himself it’s nothing, that he’s imagining things, but the feeling lingers.

She isn’t here.

The realization settles like a weight in his gut, heavier than he expects. He looks around, barely thinking, scanning the faces of the nurses that greet him. Their expressions are polite, professional. Some are overtly friendly, flashing smiles that don’t quite reach their eyes, that hold an edge of something calculated. Interest, admiration—but not for him , not really. He’s a fighter pilot, a soldier, an evolved. To them, that is enough. He has seen this look before, from strangers, from admirers, from people who only care about the title and not the person who bears it.

But she was different.

Her eyes had never held that detached appreciation, that impersonal charm. When she looked at him, it wasn’t as a fighter pilot or as an evolved—just him . Even when she frustrated him, even when her insistence grated at his every nerve, her gaze had always been… warm . Not expectant, not opportunistic. Just warm.

He tells himself it doesn’t matter. That it shouldn’t matter.

And yet, as he helps his injured colleague onto the exam table, he catches himself waiting for something. A voice, a presence. Some offhand comment spoken too softly to be anything but habit. A glance, a flicker of recognition in the periphery. But nothing comes.

The attending nurse is quick and efficient, running through her assessments with well-practiced detachment. Caleb nods along, barely listening, responding when necessary. There is no unnecessary chatter, no teasing remarks, no genuine interest laced into the folds of conversation. It’s just routine. Just another patient, another soldier passing through.

It shouldn’t bother him. But it does.

He forces himself to focus, crossing his arms as the nurse finishes up, his jaw tightening with each second. This is what he wanted, isn’t it? Distance. Silence. No more unwelcome familiarity, no more persistent warmth chipping away at his defenses.

Then why does it feel like something has gone wrong ?

Caleb exhales sharply, raking a hand through his hair as his colleague thanks the nurse and slides off the table. The moment passes, and he turns to leave, shoving the nagging feeling away with practiced ease. But it sticks, an unwelcome itch beneath his skin, an absence he doesn’t want to name.

He was too harsh.

The thought comes unbidden, slipping past the walls he’s built, past the logic he clings to. He told himself he was certain—he had seen the signs, felt the instinctual pull of warning. People didn’t just show up in his life. Not without a reason. Not without a purpose.

And yet, that damn dream—

It’s been clawing at the edges of his mind all morning, refusing to let go. He doesn’t dream of things like that. He dreams of fire, of cold metal restraints, of Ever’s voice seeping into his bones like poison. But this? This was different. It wasn’t her. It wasn’t Ever. It wasn’t what he knew .

It was her .

Her hand reaching for him. Her warmth against him. The feeling of something settling into place when it should have been the opposite. And now, with her gone—

No.

He clenches his fists, nails biting into his palms. He was rarely wrong. His instincts had kept him alive this long, had shielded him from threats hiding behind soft smiles and honeyed words. He had to trust himself.

He had to.

Because if he lets himself unravel over something as fleeting as a dream, over a presence that shouldn't have mattered, then he’s already lost.

His defenses must hold. His judgment must stay sharp. And if there’s even the smallest chance that his gut was right, that she is a threat—then he’ll find proof. Concrete evidence.

He has to. Before whatever this is—before she —digs any deeper.

//

The sheets are soft against her skin, the air warm and still, but she feels cold. It isn't the kind that lingers on the surface, the kind that fades with dry clothes and hot tea—it's deeper. It sits heavy in her chest, pooling in the spaces between her ribs, curling tight around her heart.

She should be at work right now. But the head nurse saw her come back last night, drenched and shaking, and ordered her to rest. It’d be strange if she didn’t even get sick after all that. So now she’s here, staring at the ceiling, curled up under blankets that do nothing to stop the trembling inside her.

She squeezes her eyes shut.

"Stay away from me."

His voice wasn’t raised, but it cut like a blade, precise and merciless.

She sees his violet eyes, cold and distant in the rain, filled with nothing but wariness and rejection. Then she sees them again, from long ago—warmer, softer. The eyes of a boy who once held her hand in the dark, who once clung to her as they shivered on the cell floor, terrified of what the next experiment would bring.

How did it come to this?

She knew Caleb’s past. Knew how deep the wounds ran, how much he had suffered. But she never expected… this.

Where did she go wrong? She retraces her steps, trying to understand. She wanted to reach out, to remind him he wasn’t alone, but every attempt only pushed him further away. She offered kindness, and he saw calculation. She tried to help, and he saw manipulation. She smiled, and he flinched like it was a trap.

And worst of all, he dared to compare her to Ever.

Her stomach twists with disgust. The thought alone makes her want to scream. Ever, the monster who played god with their lives, stole, experimented, broke them piece by piece—he had thrown her name in the same breath as that thing. As if they could ever be the same. As if she could ever—

The misunderstanding ran too deep. And still, she was willing to bare herself open, lay herself raw before him, if only to get him to understand. He didn’t even have to remember her. She didn’t need that. She only wished they could have a good relationship. That the wariness in his eyes could fade, even just a little.

It used to be different. Once, in another life, she had watched him through a phone screen. The Caleb she knew back then was loving, was kind, was obsessive but only because he loved so fiercely. He had suffered for it, but he had still loved. And she had adored him for it.

She never even wanted to get between him and MC, despite her love for him. She understood what they were to each other, what they had been through. If anything, she had only ever wanted to be their friend. But it didn’t matter, did it? That was all a game, and this—this was real.

She exhales shakily, pressing a hand over her face. The past should have felt like another lifetime, but she remembers it vividly. The heartbreak she once thought was unbearable—her ex’s betrayal, the weight of loneliness—seems so small now. Like an old scar, barely noticeable compared to the wounds she carried now. In this world, she had endured so much worse. And yet, this pain, this rejection, still cut deep.

She had seen MC once. Here, in this world. Back when she was just a nurse intern, adjusting to this new life. She had turned a corner in the hospital hallway, and there she was—the protagonist of the story she once loved. And MC had not recognized her.

She knew from the game that MC had forgotten her time in Ever, but it still hurt. A polite smile. A glance. And then nothing. The little girl clinging to her side who was the first to smile at her when she came to this world—she was a stranger to her now, too. The two of them walked past each other without hesitation, without second-guessing because that was the only thing she could do.

No recognition. No warmth. No history.

It shouldn’t have mattered. It was better that way. But it left something hollow in her chest. It shouldn’t hurt this much, but it does. It aches in a way that healing abilities can’t fix. But she’s not giving up.

One more try. She’ll clear her name. She’ll explain everything. Even if he never remembers her, even if he never trusts her, she refuses to let his last impression of her be a lie.

//

The hallway smelled sterile, sharp with the faint sting of antiseptic, but beneath it, there was something heavier. The air felt thick, pressing down on her, suffocating. It wasn’t the recycled atmosphere of the medical wing—it was him. Caleb stood there, rigid as ever, his expression unreadable, his violet eyes like polished glass, reflecting nothing. But she could feel the weight of his presence, the way it smothered the air between them, turning it into something oppressive, something unbearable.

She had told herself she was ready. She had built herself up in the quiet hours, had rehearsed what she would say, had imagined a dozen different outcomes. But none of them had prepared her for the way he just kept walking.

“Caleb—”

He didn’t pause. Didn’t even look at her. Didn’t acknowledge her voice, as if she were nothing more than a breeze in a storm, inconsequential, forgettable.

She stepped forward, determined to close the distance, determined to make him listen—

And then she couldn’t move.

It was like the weight of the entire station had slammed into her, her limbs locking in place, her body caught in an invisible hold. She gasped, instinctively straining against it, but it was useless. He had her pinned without even turning around.

Her throat tightened.

He wouldn’t even look at her, and still, he went this far to stop her.

By the time the weight lifted, by the time she could move again, he was gone.

When he returned to the medical wing, it was different. This time, he was the patient. She saw him being brought in, his flight suit torn, his arm smeared with blood. The usual clinical detachment she had trained herself to maintain nearly cracked apart at the sight of him. But she had learned. She had learned that Caleb didn’t want her concern, that any attempt at kindness was another strike against her in his book.

So she swallowed it down, forced herself to remain composed as she stepped forward to take his chart.

“I don’t need help from people like you.” His voice was sharp, cutting, designed to wound.

Her grip on the tablet tightened. She had expected this, and yet it still hit like a slap. “It’s my job to treat you,” she said evenly, forcing herself to hold her ground. “I don’t pick favorites.”

His mouth curled into something almost amused, but there was no warmth to it. “No?” he scoffed. “Is that what you tell yourself?”

She ignored it. She wouldn’t rise to his bait. “Your arm needs to be cleaned before an infection sets in,” she continued, reaching for the supplies.

“I don’t waste time on people who pretend to be something they’re not.”

The words landed harder than the last, colder than anything else he had ever said to her. And she snapped .

“I’m not pretending !” Her voice wavered, but not from uncertainty—from frustration, from desperation. From the injustice of it all. “I was there too, Caleb. I suffered just like you. I lost just like you.” Her breath hitched, and she hated it, hated that she was breaking. “I’m not Ever .”

His expression didn’t change. If anything, it hardened. “A funny thing to say,” he mused. “When the evidence says otherwise.”

She stilled. “What?”

He tossed a data pad onto the bed. It took her a second to register what she was looking at. A report. A DNA report .

Her DNA.

Tied to an Ever facility.

Her stomach twisted, her breath leaving her in a sharp exhale. “That’s not—”

“Not real?” Caleb cut in. His tone was mild, but there was something underneath it, something burning, something furious. “Your DNA was found in one of their labs. Do you have any idea what that means?”

Her heart pounded. “I do , but—”

“It means,” he continued, voice dropping to something almost quiet, almost lethal, “that you’re one of them.”

“No.” She shook her head violently. “I’m not. I—They took me, Caleb. They experimented on me. If my DNA is there, it’s because they used me—”

“How convenient.”

That stopped her. The way he said it, cold, dismissive. Like it was nothing . Like she was nothing.

She forced herself to meet his eyes, her vision blurring. “Caleb, please,” she whispered. “Tell me what I can do to prove to you that I’m telling the truth.”

He looked at her, and for the briefest second, there was something there. Something hesitant. But then, like a switch flipping, it was gone.

“Disappearing would be a start.”

She stopped breathing. The air in the room grew colder, tighter. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t do anything but break .

For a long moment, she just stared at him. At the man who had once been her closest friend, her light in the darkness. And then, finally, she did the only thing left to do.

She let go.

//

She lets go.

It isn’t a dramatic declaration, no whispered words of surrender, no final confrontation. It just happens—quietly, decisively. She stops looking for him in crowded hallways. Stops waiting for the weight of his gaze. Stops listening for the sound of his voice, sharp and cold, cutting through the air like a blade.

And when he does come to the medical wing—just once—she doesn’t even glance in his direction. Another nurse tends to him while she checks on her own patients, hands steady as she notes vitals, voice calm as she gives instructions. No looking. No smiles. No hesitation. Nothing.

Because she had been too caught up with him, prioritized him, loved him, and hurt herself for it to end up this way.

She sits at her desk that night, fingers curled into the sheets of an old patient file, staring blankly at the wall. Why? Why had she done this to herself? Why had she fixated on Caleb so much? Because of the game? Because he had once been pixels on a screen, a voice in her ears, a character who loved with an intensity that once felt unattainable?

But this wasn’t a game.

This was her life. And she was wasting it on someone who only saw her as an enemy. She exhales slowly, forcing herself to release the ache in her chest. It’s no use. He has made his choice, and she has to make hers.

Starting now, she lives for herself.

Chapter Text

Her shift ends late, the kind of late where the world is silent, and the hallways are washed in dim artificial light. The kind of late where exhaustion clings to her bones, but it’s the emptiness in her chest that makes her slow, makes her movements heavier than they should be.

She enters the staff locker room, her fingers absently going through the motions of twisting open the lock, pulling the door wide. Her eyes land on the small braided bracelet hanging on one of the hooks, frayed at the edges from years of wear. She had never failed to put it back on every after shift. Not until today.

Her fingers twitch toward it before curling into a fist at her side. No. She leaves it there.

Her lifeline, her comfort, the one thing that kept her grounded. She had to learn to live without it. Without him, she never had him. Only the thought of him, her hopes for him.

She exhales, not realizing she had been holding her breath, and gathers her things. Her chest aches in the same way her legs used to ache when she was younger, when they weren’t hers, when she would wake up after a surgery she had no memory of consenting to. When she would look at her own limbs and wonder if she was still herself.

It took years to accept herself after escaping from Ever. Years of looking into the mirror and searching for something familiar, something that hadn’t been stripped from her, dissected, harvested, stolen from her. Was there anything left of the girl she used to be? The girl from before it all started?

She doesn’t know. 

But she had learned to live. She had worked so hard to build this life, to stand on her own. And now, it might all come crashing down. Caleb had told her to disappear, and she finally understood what he meant. She had spent too long trying to reach him, too long prioritizing him, too long breaking herself against the cold wall of his rejection. And now, he was suspicious. He might try to get her fired, he might dig too deep. 

Her heartbeat stutters in a sudden cold realization. 

It was too convenient. Ever never made mistakes. Her DNA being found was sloppy, too careless for an organization as meticulous as them. That was the real suspicious thing. Not her. Not whatever Caleb believed she was hiding. No, the real trap was this. 

She barely registers the moment her knees hit the ground.

Her lungs lock up, refusing to take in air, like she’s drowning in open air. Her fingers dig into the fabric over her ribs, trying to pry herself open, trying to force herself to breathe , but her chest stays tight, squeezed in a vice grip of fear. Her vision narrows, tunneling, and the only thing she can hear is the deafening ring in her ears—louder, louder, swallowing everything.

Ever. They could be looking for her. They were always looking for her.

She had been so careful, so meticulous, so utterly paranoid. But now, because of a single misstep— because of him —they probably had a lead. They might have used Caleb as bait.  And if he kept digging, if he didn’t let it go— they would find her.

Her body curls in on itself. Her hands are shaking too hard to grip anything, so she presses them against the cold pavement, grounding herself, feeling the bite of reality against her fingertips. Think. Move. Breathe.

No. She can't breathe.

She needs—she needs—

The stars.

She wrenches her gaze upward, past the windows, past the streetlights, past everything here until she sees the sky. 

Name them.

Her lips part on instinct, voice barely a whisper, a desperate tether to something solid.

“Algol.” The Demon Star. A pulsing, flickering omen in Perseus, shifting between light and darkness like a heartbeat. A star named for Medusa, the girl who was wronged, who was betrayed, who was turned into something monstrous not by choice, but by cruelty.

Her vision blurs, but she keeps going, dragging her breath, forcing herself to speak, to count, to exist .

“Antares.” The heart of the scorpion, the one that stung Orion in vengeance. A death that was inevitable, fated, written in the stars before it even happened.

Another inhale. She feels it this time.

She’s still here.

“Procyon.” The lonely one. The lesser dog, always chasing Sirius but never quite reaching. Forever just a little behind, forever watching from a distance.

Her pulse slows, but she keeps going, keeps naming, keeps reaching.

Her ribs expand.

“Castor.” The twin who was mortal, who died while his brother, Pollux, lived on—half of a whole, torn apart. But Pollux begged the gods, pleaded, so they were given the sky, placed side by side, together in the only way they could be.

Her shoulders ease, just slightly.

“Sadr.” The star in the center of Cygnus, the swan. The reminder of Phaethon, who flew too close to the sun and was struck down for it. A boy who just wanted to prove himself.

She breathes again. The tightness in her ribs loosens.

“Achernar.” The one that means ‘End of the River’—like an ending, like a destination, like a place to finally rest.

The panic isn’t gone. It lingers, curling in the edges of her mind, but it doesn’t own her anymore. Maybe this was how Caleb felt. The paranoia that seeps in, that devours, that covers your mind from logical thinking. 

She chuckles bitterly. Even at times like these, she finds a way to defend him.

She looks at the stars, at their quiet, tragic glow, and reminds herself—

She is still here.

The stars are proof of it.

//

Caleb thought relief would come after he told her to disappear. It was the logical choice, wasn’t it? She was a variable he couldn't predict, a danger he couldn’t risk. But the moment she actually listened, the moment she faded from his periphery, something inside him twisted in a way he couldn’t explain.

The days stretch on, and her absence is not a fleeting silence but a deep, yawning chasm. A void where warmth used to be. He doesn’t realize how much of his world was shaped by her presence until it's gone.

The medical wing—once an ever-present backdrop in his life—feels strangely foreign now. It is still the same white-lit space, still lined with the same pristine sheets and antiseptic-scented air. But something is missing. Or maybe, someone . 

He used to see her in the corner of his eye, a quiet, steady figure. Used to feel her warmth lingering in the spaces they shared. A nurse handing him supplies, a doctor speaking to him about post-op care—her presence used to be woven into the fabric of his routine, effortless, constant. Now, there is nothing. A part of him tells himself it is better this way. That he pushed her away so fiercely that he had no right to even think this way.

But another part—a deeper, more buried part—resents the empty spaces she left behind.

//

It is his annual physical today. A formality, really, but necessary. The psychiatric exam is part of it, too, as it always is for soldiers with his level of clearance. He arrives at the medical wing alongside a few other pilots from his squad. They chat idly among themselves as they wait for their names to be called. Caleb does not join them.

Instead, his gaze finds her.

She’s there, moving effortlessly between patients, her focus sharp, her expression distant but professional. And she does not look at him. Not even once. Something ached, twisted, burned. He pushes it down. She moved with practiced ease, brushing past other medics as she jotted notes on a tablet. 

It is a jarring contrast to before. Before—when her eyes always sought him out, when there was always something hesitant, almost hopeful in them. Before—when she had been desperate to reach him, to tell him something he refused to hear.

And now, she is untouchable. A presence so completely removed from his own that it sends something cold down his spine.

He should be relieved. This was what he wanted, wasn’t it? She was finally gone from his life. She had finally stopped looking at him with those eyes—eyes filled with too much emotion, too much vulnerability.

But instead, he only feels… wrong.

He recalls the way she looked at him the last time they spoke—no, the last time he tore her apart. The raw devastation in her eyes, the way her lips parted as if forming words she could no longer say, the way her hands curled into her sleeves as though trying to hold herself together.

And for the first time, as he watches her now, Caleb acknowledges something he has been trying to ignore.

He had acted too rashly.

He had not taken the time to truly delve into the evidence before making his conclusion. His judgment had been swift, absolute—because every time she looked at him, something clawed at him. In his chest. In his gut. In his heart.

It had been unbearable.

It had felt dangerous .

Something inside him had screamed at him, something wordless but undeniable. And he had taken it as a warning. As his instincts telling him that she was dangerous . But now—watching her from across the room, feeling nothing but the cold, aching weight of regret settling into his bones—he wonders if he had interpreted it all wrong.

Caleb forced himself to look away.

This was what he wanted. What he had told her to do. To disappear. To leave him alone. To stop trying. Then why did it feel like something inside him was unraveling?

He clenched his jaw, focusing on anything else—the steady beeping of the monitors, the quiet hum of conversation, the low chuckles from his squadmates nearby. But his attention was pulled back to her, like an instinct he couldn’t suppress.

The moment that shatters his composure comes subtly. A small, insignificant thing. A man approaches her. A fighter pilot, one of the new recruits. Tall. Handsome. Charming. The kind of man women glance at twice. He is smiling, easy and confident, as he sets something down on the counter beside her.

A cup of coffee and a small pastry—strawberry shortcake, from the popular café near the base.

It is casual. Friendly. A gesture simple in its intent.

Caleb expected her usual polite, distant response. Expected her to take it with the same detached professionalism she always had.

But then—

A small smile. Caleb watches, unable to look away, as she hesitates. As she blinks up at the man in mild surprise. As something soft flickers over her face. A hint of pink on her cheeks as she reached out, hesitating for half a second before accepting the gift.

Something in Caleb’s mind went blank.

She accepts the offering, murmuring a quiet "Thank you," and Caleb expects nothing more than her usual polite indifference. But she looks flustered . There is a shyness in the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, a hesitance in the way she glances away, a flicker of something unguarded in her eyes.

She is... charmed. She is responding to it.

Something cold wraps around his lungs.

One of the men beside him whistles low under his breath. "Damn, guess I'm too late. I was gonna wait ‘til we talked more to make a move."

Another hums in agreement. "She's got a lot of admirers, man. You're gonna have to be quicker than that."

And something inside Caleb snaps . The realization slams into him with the force of a physical blow—so sudden, so complete, it makes his breath catch.

She is popular . Of course, she is. She is young, intelligent, capable, and kind. She moves quickly at the sight of the wounded and in need, swiftly working with her hands, assisting with anything she can. When he was on the receiving end of treatment, he even felt that he recovered faster than usual. 

She is admired. Desired. She is— wanted . Not just by him. But by everyone else, too .

He backtracks. Since when did he want her?

She, who once looked only at him, who once sought him out even when he pushed her away, now does not even glance in his direction.

And Caleb feels left behind . He’d spat out too much venom for him to back out now. Pride—instinct—self-preservation—whatever it was that kept him from acknowledging the full depth of his mistake, it clawed at him relentlessly. If he admitted he was wrong, then what was all of it for? The way he shut her down, the way he told her to disappear, the way he ripped her apart with his words and never once let her explain? It would mean he had destroyed something precious with his own hands.

So instead, he digs deeper.

Maybe he only wants proof that he was right. That there was something about her that didn’t add up, something that justified the way he tore her down. If he was right, then at least—at least —he wouldn’t have to face the weight of what he had done.

So he watches. And he sees things he never saw before.

He notices how the other doctors and nurses gravitate toward her. The casual, unconscious ease with which they include her in their conversations, the way their eyes soften when she speaks. 

He notices the fighter pilots who linger a little too long after their checkups, who smile a little too much when she’s the one tending to them. The quiet competition between them, the subtle shifts in posture, the way they lean in just slightly when she speaks.

He watches.

Because something about it feels unbearable .

The way she doesn’t need him anymore. The way she doesn’t even think of him.

The way she looks at another man—flustered, blushing, soft around the edges in a way she never was with him . And that was his fault.

He catches himself wondering—had she ever wanted to be seen by him that way? Was that the type of affection she wanted from him? Had he been so determined to push her away that he never once let himself see it?

But the thought is dangerous, so he drowns it out.

Instead, he convinces himself he just needs more evidence. That if he keeps looking, if he keeps watching, if he keeps digging—he’ll find something that makes it okay .

That makes it hurt less .

//

It starts with a restless night.

Caleb has always been able to force himself to sleep, to shut off his mind when necessary. But tonight, it’s different. The room is quiet, too quiet. His quarters feel colder than usual. He shifts beneath the sheets, the fabric suffocating against his skin. He turns onto his side, then his back, then his side again—his body seeking comfort where none exists.

His mind keeps circling back to the same thing.

She didn’t even look at me.

It shouldn’t bother him. It shouldn’t even be on his mind. But it is. It is .

He sees the scene from the medical wing like a film playing behind his eyelids. The way she moved with purpose, completely unaffected by his presence. How she never spared him a glance, not once. How she smiled— smiled —at another man instead, accepting the small offering of coffee and shortcake like it meant something.

The worst part? She blushed.

Not the kind of polite smile she used to give others, not the warmth she once reserved for him alone. It was real . She had looked away, lips parting slightly in surprise, fingers tightening around the cup like she was touched, maybe even—no, he wouldn’t say it. He couldn’t.

Caleb sits up sharply, hands gripping his sheets. The air in his room is suffocating. His gut twists in a way he doesn’t like, something foreign and wrong rising in his chest. He should have let it go, let her go, like he wanted. Like he told her to.

Instead, he stands, shoulders tense, and stalks toward his desk.

The terminal screen flickers to life with a hum. His fingers hover over the keyboard, then move with purpose.

Just a little more digging.

He was too hasty. Maybe he had let his instincts speak too quickly, too cruelly. Maybe if he could just find the truth , he’d prove to himself that he was right . That she really was suspicious. That the guilt festering in his stomach wasn’t warranted. That he hadn’t made a mistake.

The search starts simple. He pulls up records, cross-references DNA samples, and tracks the anomalies tied to Ever. But then—something shifts. The list expands. He expects the usual: vague medical notes, unauthorized experiments, classified data. He had already tried this before and nothing came up. Until now. 

But what he finds is worse.

Much worse.

At first, Caleb thought it was a mistake, an error in the records. Some sick joke, or maybe a corruption in the data. But the longer he stared at the screen, the less he could breathe. The numbers blurred in and out of focus, timestamps lined up in neat, clinical rows—each one a transaction. Each one a piece of her.

5 years ago. 6 years ago. 7. 8. 9. 10. 11. 12.

His fingers shook as he scrolled further, seeing the earliest recorded sale.

Twelve years ago. She would have been a child. A little girl.

A kidney. A liver lobe. Bone marrow extraction.

Ten years ago. A cornea. Another kidney. Bone marrow again.

Eight years ago. A lung lobe. Skin grafts. Partial pancreas.

Six years ago. Another lung lobe. Another liver section. A heart valve.

Four years ago. A whole heart.

Caleb stopped breathing. His vision blurred at the words. No. No, that wasn’t possible. That wasn’t possible. She was alive. She was whole.

His eyes darted back over the long, endless, sickening list, his mind working through the impossible contradiction. Organs didn’t regenerate. Once a kidney was gone, it was gone. A heart—

His stomach churned, bile rising in his throat as his shaking hand clicked open the detailed report. There it was, in unfeeling text. The injection logs.

Subject 009—Evol Booster Trial

Administered: Day 1

Harvested: Day 4

Administered: Day 4

Harvested: Day 5

Her Evol— whatever it is —had allowed Ever to harvest from her. Not once. Not twice. But over and over. Days apart administrating and harvesting narrowing and narrowing until they reflect the same dates. A new kidney. A new liver. A new lung. A new fucking heart. Again and again.

Over and over, an unbroken cycle of giving and taking. Of Ever plunging its hands into her and taking from her again and again.

A heart. More than once. A whole, beating heart ripped out of her chest and yet, she was still alive .

He lurched forward, gripping the desk as his stomach twisted violently. He felt like he might throw up. He wanted to. He wanted to rid himself of this knowledge, to shove the screen away, to burn these records and never think of them again. But he couldn't. She had smiled. Laughed. Looked him in the eyes and spoke like she was fine, like she was whole. And all this time, her body had been taken apart and put back together. Somehow, they had taken from her again and again, and she somehow endured.

How many times had she woken up on a cold steel table, knowing that another piece of herself was gone?

A slow, sickening dread seeps into his bones.

He thought of the girl he met under the stars, under the rain, so perfect that she shook his heart and almost took his breath away. No scars. No visible damage. Nothing to suggest she had ever been broken.

But now, he knew.

And suddenly, he saw it. All of it. The way she flinched when she thought no one was looking. The exhaustion in her eyes after long shifts, a weariness deeper than fatigue. The strange way she held herself, as if she expected to be hurt at any moment. The way she had reached out to him, desperate, willing to lay herself bare—and how he had shoved her away. He had accused her. He had doubted her. He had told her to disappear.

And all this time, she had already lost everything . He asked someone who lost themself again and again to disappear. 

Caleb swallows, but the bile in his throat doesn’t go away. His chest aches, a dull, hollow thing, like something inside him is collapsing in on itself. And then, his head pounds. His hands curled into fists, nails biting into his palms. She was just like him. No . She was worse. He could never compare. All those years he had thought himself the most broken. Thought that no one could understand what it meant to be at Ever’s mercy. 

But he had never been reduced to numbers on a sales ledger. He had never been sold in parts. Caleb exhaled shakily, pressing a hand against his forehead as a sharp pain lanced through his skull. It fucking hurt. Something clawed at the edges of his mind, a memory trying to force its way through, something he had forgotten—no, something he had been made to forget.

A facility. Dim, cold lights overhead. The hum of machines. The scent of antiseptic and blood.

A voice, soft, chattering in the dark.

“…You know, if you squint, the ceiling kinda looks like a sky…”

A hand gripping his own. Small. Warm. Steady.

He saw her. Her.

The girl who never left his side. The girl who healed him, who stayed with him when the screams of the only other person he cared about shattered his world. The girl whose presence he had warmed to, whose existence had anchored him—and who had been taken from him before he could even realize how much she already meant to him.

His breath hitched. His chest ached. His vision blurred, but not from pain. Tears.

Because he finally remembered her.

It’s her. Not the woman she is now, but a girl. Small, bright-eyed, full of stubborn warmth despite the cold world around her. She had been there.

His hands clenched. The pain in his skull intensified, like something was cracking open from the inside—like something buried deep, something he had forgotten on purpose , was clawing its way back to the surface.

More memories came.

Her chatter filling the sterile halls. Her fingers gripping his, tight, steady, grounding when the screaming got too loud. The sound of her laugh, soft but certain, even in the darkest corners of that place. She had been there. She had given everything. For him.

And he had—

He had turned her away. A sharp, shuddering breath left him, but it didn’t ease the weight on his chest. She had been taken from him once before. And now, because of him , he had done it again. 

The screen before him blurred, but he wasn’t seeing it anymore. He wasn’t in this dimly lit room, surrounded by damning files and irrefutable proof. No, he was back there—back in that place. Watching as she was dragged away, screaming his name, her small hands reaching for him, desperate—

"CALEB!"

His stomach twisted. His hands shook. He felt sick, sick , because now—now he understood what he had done. He had looked at her, truly looked at her, and saw a stranger. A threat. When all this time, she had been—

His knees hit the ground before he even realized he had moved. His breath came too fast, too uneven. His body felt too tight, his ribs felt like they were collapsing inward, like there wasn’t enough air in this room, in this entire damn world to fill his lungs.

He had done this to her. He had thrown her aside like she was nothing, like she hadn’t spent her entire life surviving, fighting, running. Like she hadn’t found him again , and instead of reaching back—he had shoved her away.

"You have to keep fighting, Caleb."

But she wasn’t saying it to him anymore. The words echoed, but they were faint, distant. Because maybe, after everything, she had finally stopped believing in him.

His breath stuttered. A choked, gasping sound tore from his throat.

What had he done?

What had he done?

He pressed his fists against his eyes, as if he could shove the memories back, as if he could undo what he had said, what he had done. It can’t be too late.

She was gone.

But he’ll do everything to get her back. 

Chapter Text

Pain had long since become her companion. It lived beneath her skin, settled into her bones, curled in the marrow like a parasite. It was no longer sharp, no longer something that made her flinch or scream. It was simply there—a dull, ceaseless thrum, as familiar as the cold steel of the operating table beneath her.

Every day, they took from her. Slices of skin. Fragments of bone. Tissue peeled back, veins siphoned, nerves tested. She no longer asked what they did with her discarded parts. She knew it wasn’t for anything good.

She had stopped thinking about escape. The hope had been carved out of her alongside everything else. There was no point in dreaming when her world had shrunk to the sterile white of Ever’s walls, to the scent of antiseptic and the metallic tang of blood. Her blood.

Until tonight.

“Do you remember those two kids from Subject Ward C?”

“The ones that disappeared?”

“Yeah. The successful prototypes. They escaped years ago—can you believe that? Must have had help.”

Her pulse stopped.

Years ago.

Caleb and the other MC escaped years ago.

The words rattled inside her skull, shaking loose something buried. Something she had forgotten to wonder about.

She remembered now.

Caleb’s voice, warm through the screen. The way his hand had ruffled MC’s hair—the way it had ruffled her hair as the game made it appear, in another life. She had played that game for hours, watching his gentle smile, the way his devotion never wavered, the way his love consumed.

She had wanted that. To be someone’s everything. To be someone’s only .

And for the first time in years, she wanted something again.

She wanted to see him. She needed to see him.

Because in this world, in this endless nightmare of white walls and agony, he was the only thing that felt familiar.

Her years of suffering had built up like sediment, layer upon layer of pain compacting into something unshakable. She had endured the scalpels, the tests, the inhuman experiments. She had withstood their attempts to shatter her, to break her beyond repair. But the weight of it all had settled deep, pressing into her soul like an iron brand. No matter how much they remade her, reshaped her, tore her apart and stitched her back together—she was still her. Wasn't she?

But she didn’t feel human. Not anymore.

She didn’t remember softness. She had long since forgotten what warmth felt like. Every interaction, every touch, had been pain, had been cold and clinical and cruel. The only warmth she had ever known had been pixels on a screen. His voice. His smile. His presence.

And maybe it was pathetic, maybe it was delusional—but she didn’t care. Caleb had been hers once. Even if it was just through a screen, even if it was just fiction, he had been there. And now, she needed to find him. She needed to see if he was still real. Because if he was real, then maybe—just maybe—so was she.

Her body was a patchwork of scars one could no longer see, a hidden testament to every experiment they had inflicted upon her. But her mind? Her mind had been waiting. Watching. They thought she was broken. They thought she had given up.

They were wrong.

They had grown careless.

Tonight, they made a mistake.

Her restraints held her in place because she had hands.

That was easy enough to fix.

She inhaled slowly. The cold air stung her lungs, sharp and sterile. Her heartbeat was steady, controlled. Her hands twitched against the cuffs, fingers curling.

One deep breath—

And she tore them off.

Agony exploded through her nerves as muscle ripped, as bone snapped. Her wrists, jagged and raw, oozed red down her forearms, the warmth stark against the chill of the room. The pain was suffocating, her vision blurring, her stomach lurching. But she endured.

This is nothing.

Her body shuddered, but already—already, the flesh was knitting itself back together. The regeneration was faster this time, the Evol injection surging through her veins like fire. Skin reformed. Blood vessels reconnected. Ten seconds. Just ten seconds, and her hands were whole again. She flexed her fingers.

Then she did the same to her ankles.

A silent scream burned in her throat as she twisted, forced her feet through metal bindings, feeling the snap of tendons, the wrench of ligaments giving way. The pain was worse than she remembered. But the relief —

The relief was euphoric. She was free.

She stumbled forward, blood staining the pristine floor beneath her. She needed to move. To run. To leave. But then the door creaked open.

And the man standing there was the worst one. The scientist who sneered at her suffering. Who made snide comments as he held the scalpel. Whose gaze lingered too long in ways that made her skin crawl. Something inside her snapped. He barely had time to react before she lunged.

The scalpel was cold in her palm, but his throat was warm. She felt the blade part skin, felt the way his breath hitched, heard the wet gurgle as he staggered back, hands flying to his neck.

But she wasn’t done.

Her fingers curled in his coat as she dragged him toward the table. The same table they had strapped her to. The same table where they had cut her open, over and over and over. She slammed him down onto it.

Straps. Wires. Inhibitors.

She had spent years memorizing them. It took seconds to trap him. His eyes, wide with terror, met hers. He choked on his own blood, lips parting in a plea. She leaned down, voice raw.

“Hurts, doesn’t it?”

Her fingers found the switch. The moment she flicked it, electricity surged through his body. He convulsed, muscles seizing, a strangled cry ripping from his throat. His body arched, his limbs jerking, his pupils blown wide in agony.

She watched. Then she turned away. By the time she stepped out of the room, his screams were all she could hear. And for the first time in years, she smiled.

She was human. Wasn’t she?

The sirens howled through the corridors, a deafening wail that vibrated through the walls, through her bones, a suffocating reminder that she was running out of time. Red emergency lights flashed overhead in rhythmic bursts, turning the sterile white halls into a pulsing, blood-soaked nightmare. Her feet pounded against the cold floors, her breath ragged, chest burning, but she couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop.

Somewhere behind her, heavy boots thundered against the ground. The shouts of guards overlapped, frantic voices barking orders, their panic laced with confusion. She had done the impossible—she had gotten this far. But knowing their patterns, knowing their blind spots, had only bought her seconds. And seconds weren’t enough.

She lunged around a corner, nearly slipping in her own blood. It trailed behind her in smeared, erratic streaks—marks of her escape, evidence that she was still alive. Her arm hung limp at her side, a sickening weight where her shoulder had popped out of its socket. The pain was distant now, swallowed by the sheer force of her will to survive, but the damage was done. If they caught her, they wouldn’t put her back in a cell. She had ruined too much.

She had killed for this.

The facility was shutting down around her, doors slamming shut one after another, steel barricades sealing off corridors, forcing her path into a narrowing vice. A voice crackled over the speakers, distorted yet suffocatingly familiar—one of the scientists.

“Sector B is locked. There’s nowhere left to run.”

She staggered, her breath coming in desperate gasps, fingers twitching against the wall as she forced herself forward. Nowhere left to run? They thought she would follow the rules of this place, that she would try to slip through doors, find gaps in their defenses, stay human in her means of escape. But she had long since abandoned that luxury.

Her eyes flickered upward.

A ventilation shaft.

It was too small. Not made for a body like hers, not made for anything other than airflow, but she didn’t hesitate. She lunged, catching onto the grated edge, her fingers slick with sweat and blood. The metal sliced into her skin, sharp ridges biting deep, but she hauled herself up anyway. Her legs kicked against the wall, searching for leverage. It wasn’t enough.

She grit her teeth.

I’ll heal. 

And then, with a sharp inhale, she wrenched her injured arm forward.

The pain was a wildfire, an explosion in her nerves, the kind of agony that sent nausea rolling up her throat, but she didn’t stop. The joint gave way with a sickening pop, contorting unnaturally as her frame crushed in on itself . She used the dead weight of it to twist through the vent’s opening, shoving her body forward into the impossible space.

Her bones grinded against the metal. Her skin tore.

The world narrowed.

The guards stormed into the hall beneath her just as she vanished into the vents.

"Where—?!" One of them started, but their confusion was instant.

She shouldn’t have fit.

Their footsteps scattered, voices rising in sharp bursts of disbelief, but she was already crawling, dragging herself forward with her good arm. The ventilation shaft was a suffocating cage, the walls pressing in too tightly, the air thin and metallic. She could barely breathe. Each movement scraped raw skin against the steel, her ribs digging into themselves as she contorted further, pulling through where there should have been no space .

Below, the voices multiplied.

"She’s in the vents!"

"Block all exit points!"

Panic clawed at the edges of her mind, but she shoved it down. There was no turning back. There was only forward .

She reached a fork—one path sloping downward, the other leading toward another dead end. She didn’t think. She chose the drop.

Her body slipped, the angle too steep, the metal too smooth. Gravity yanked her down, and suddenly she was falling .

The impact stole the breath from her lungs. She slammed against another grate, ribs cracking against the steel, vision bursting with stars, but there was no time to dwell on the pain. She braced herself, gasping for air, but the shaft ended in another barrier .

She had no more time.

The footsteps were coming closer now, louder, more determined. If she hesitated, they would find her. Drag her back .

Her hands curled into fists.

Then, before she could second-guess herself, she threw her injured shoulder that was actively regenerating, healing, trying to fall back into place, against the grate. The first hit sent a shockwave through her body, the agony splintering through her nerves. The second brought something sharp and wet to her throat. The third—

Something cracked. She didn’t know if it was the grate or her bones. But the metal gave way .

She plummeted. Air rushed past her in a cold blur, and then—impact.

Dirt. Not cold tile. Not steel. Dirt.

She had fallen outside. The air was different— real air, crisp and heavy with the scent of damp earth. She lay there for a moment, gasping, her body screaming at her, but she wasn’t inside anymore. The weight of the facility was gone, the mechanical hum of its artificial world gone .

She turned her head. And froze. The sky stretched above her, infinite and vast, a yawning darkness filled with pinpricks of light .

The stars.

They were nothing like the harsh fluorescents of the labs. They didn’t flicker with the cold precision of a machine, didn’t belong to men who thought they could control the universe.

They burned .

Her vision blurred—not from pain, not from exhaustion, but from something deeper. A tremor ran through her, the sharp pulse of adrenaline still laced with agony, but she wasn’t scared anymore. She closed her eyes.

I’ll heal. I’ll heal.

It was a promise to herself, a chant she clung to, the only thing that mattered. Her ribs ached, her shoulder was ruined, blood still leaked from where her skin had split, but it was nothing.

She would heal.

She flexed her fingers, feeling the slow, sluggish pull of her body already beginning to stitch itself back together. It was slow, weaker than usual, drained from the escape, but the pain began to dull. The ache in her ribs ebbed, warmth spreading through the fractures as they started knitting themselves whole. Her skin tightened over raw wounds, sealing them bit by bit.

She had survived worse. She was fine.

The wind curled around her, whispering against her skin, and for the first time in what felt like forever, she breathed without fear . The facility was behind her. The stars were above her. And she was still alive.

Her lips parted, and a quiet, breathless laugh escaped. She had done it.

She was free .

//

The hum of the medical wing was familiar—a quiet symphony of beeping monitors, hushed voices, and the rhythmic shuffle of nurses moving between patients. The air carried the sharp sterility of antiseptic, cutting through the lingering tang of blood, but she welcomed it. This place wasn’t a reminder of her past; it was proof she had escaped it. The facility had been cold, clinical in a way that stripped people down to nothing but data points and failed experiments. But here, medicine was about healing, not control. The fluorescent lights were just as harsh, the walls just as sterile, but the difference was undeniable. Here, patients were seen as people, not subjects. Here, she was a nurse, not a test subject . And that was enough.

What mattered was the work. What mattered was keeping her hands steady, her focus sharp, her mind clear.

She was used to this routine, used to attractive men in the force flashing her easy grins, throwing flirtations her way as she patched them up. It was just part of the job. She had learned to smile, to play along just enough without giving them hope, because at the end of the day, none of them ever really mattered to her. Only one person had ever made her heart falter, and he wasn’t here. Caleb.

Her hands hesitated for the briefest moment before she forced the thought away. Stop thinking about him. Move on.

"This might sting," she murmured, though she knew it wouldn’t. Not really. Not for long.

The fighter pilot before her, a young man with sun-kissed skin and dark eyes that gleamed with mischief, winced as she threaded the needle through his torn flesh. The wound ran jagged along his side, a deep gash that should have taken weeks to fully mend. Yet, even as she worked, she could feel the quiet hum of her Evol awakening beneath her fingertips, stitching him back together with unnatural precision. The torn muscle reknitted faster than it should, the bleeding already slowing. She focused, steadying her breath, trying to ensure it wasn’t too fast. Just enough. Just enough to make sure it wouldn’t be noticed.

The pilot sucked in a sharp breath, then exhaled with a lopsided grin. “You know, every time you treat me, I swear I recover faster than I should.”

She paused, eyes flicking up to meet his. Her fingers, still poised with the needle, hovered just above his skin. A beat of silence passed before she forced a neutral smile. “You must just be built tough.”

He chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “Nah, I think it’s something else. Maybe it’s the power of love.” His voice was teasing, warm, like he was testing the waters of her reaction.

She blinked, caught off guard. She had been so focused on carefully balancing the amount of healing she allowed that she hadn’t expected this . A joke. Flirting. Normalcy.

But beneath that, a deeper worry twisted in her gut. He was right—he was healing too fast. And she was sure she had already adjusted for that. Hadn’t she? She had been careful, precise, ensuring that her Evol worked in minuscule amounts, barely noticeable. Had she miscalculated? Or was it… growing? Changing?

No. No, I already calibrated it. I measured it. This shouldn’t be happening. I didn’t register as an Evolver so I have to be more careful.

She clenched her jaw and quickly resumed stitching. No. That wasn’t possible. She had controlled it before; she could control it now. She just needed to be more careful. I’ll heal. I’ll heal. It’s fine. This is nothing.

“Careful,” she said smoothly, masking her unease with practiced ease. “If you keep talking like that, people might start getting ideas.”

He grinned, unbothered by the lingering sting of the needle pulling his skin back together. “Oh no, whatever will I do if people start thinking I enjoy getting patched up by you?” His tone was light, teasing, but there was an undercurrent of something else—a casual confidence, like he knew he was attractive, like he knew he could get away with saying things like that.

She tied off the last suture with a precise knot and finally met his gaze head-on. Her smile was polite, unwavering. “How about avoiding getting injured altogether?”

He let out a low chuckle, tilting his head slightly as if considering it. “Now where’s the fun in that?”

She exhaled, shaking her head as she reached for the bandages.

She focused on wrapping the wound, ensuring it was secure. But her thoughts lingered, circling around a single, undeniable truth: Her power was growing. And she needed to get it under control before someone else noticed.

//

The infirmary was crowded today, filled with the low murmur of voices, the occasional clatter of medical tools, and the ever-present scent of antiseptic. Soldiers filed in and out, some for routine physicals, others for minor injuries, while medics and assistants weaved between them with practiced efficiency. It was a scene she had witnessed countless times before, but today, none of it truly registered. Not the patients, not the paperwork, not even the exhaustion settling deep in her bones.

Because Caleb was there.

His entire squad was present, scattered throughout the room as they waited for their check-ups, but that detail felt insignificant in the face of the simple, undeniable truth—he was here. Close enough that she could hear the occasional cadence of his voice, low and impassive as he answered a medic’s questions. Close enough that if she so much as turned her head, she would see him.

But she didn’t.

She couldn’t.

This was the first time he had been this near since she had sworn to move on, since she had promised herself that she would stop letting his presence affect her. After all, what was the point? The last time they had spoken, his words had been laced with venom, sharp and deliberate in their cruelty. He had made it clear what he thought of her—what he felt . And she had taken those words, let them cut deep, and resolved to do the only thing she could. Forget him.

So she worked. She kept her hands steady as she stitched up a minor wound, her focus deliberately honed on the task before her. Every ounce of willpower went into keeping her expression neutral, into acting as though she wasn’t hyper-aware of every movement from across the room. As though her heart wasn’t betraying her with its every erratic beat.

Then, without warning, a cup of coffee and a small white box were placed in front of her.

She blinked, her fingers pausing mid-motion as she registered the offering. Slowly, she lifted her gaze to see the familiar face of the recruit she had treated just days ago—the same one who had joked about her stitching him up being the power of love. But now, there was no teasing smirk, no flirtatious glint in his eye. Instead, he looked almost… nervous.

“Just wanted to say thanks, I don’t mean anything more—I just,” He exhales. “I was told by my superior I would have had to be let go if I didn’t recover from my injury. I didn’t know it was that bad because you treated me so well. So thank you for allowing me to continue to be here.” He admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, his usual confidence softened by something more genuine.

For a moment, she simply stared, caught entirely off guard. Flirting was common—she was used to charming smiles and casual banter from soldiers who mistook kindness for something more. But this? This was different.

Her gaze drifted to the small box, the café’s familiar logo stamped onto its surface. She knew what was inside before she even opened it. Strawberry shortcake. The one thing she only ever wrote down on the request list when she was utterly drained, when the exhaustion of her shifts left her craving something sweet, something comforting. It wasn’t something she ever expected anyone to notice .

And yet, somehow, he had.

The warmth that spread through her chest had nothing to do with attraction. She wasn’t attracted to him, nor did she feel the flustered excitement of newfound interest. What she felt instead was something quieter, something unfamiliar—a sense of being seen.

He must have asked the assistants what she liked. Must have remembered the way she took her coffee, the way she only ever requested this specific dessert after particularly grueling days. It was such a small thing, a gesture that held no ulterior motive, no expectation—just simple thoughtfulness.

Her fingers hesitated before wrapping around the cup, absorbing the comforting heat of it. She had never had this before.  Not from Caleb. Not from anyone. Not since long ago when she was found, clothed and sent to school.

“Thank you,” she murmured at last, her voice softer than she intended, but sincere.

In that moment, she didn’t notice the way Caleb’s gaze had settled on them, watching every second of the exchange in silence.

The warmth of the coffee lingered against her palms longer than it should have. Even after the recruit left, grinning with a satisfied sort of nervousness, she found herself staring down at the cup, at the soft swirl of steam curling into the air. It was such a simple thing, such a fleeting moment, and yet, it left an ache in her chest—one she couldn’t quite name.

She took a slow sip, letting the bitterness settle on her tongue, grounding herself. When she finally set it aside and forced herself to focus on her work again, something had already shifted.

It started small.

The head nurse passed by her station an hour later, setting down a neatly folded blanket at the corner of her desk with a nonchalant air. "You were nodding off at your station yesterday," she said without looking up from her clipboard. "If you're going to be stubborn about sleeping in the lounge, at least keep warm." The words were gruff, almost dismissive, but the meaning beneath them was unmistakable.

She had assumed no one had noticed how late she stayed, how she often lingered long after her shift had ended, sorting supplies or double-checking patient charts simply because she had nowhere else to be.

She smoothed a hand over the soft fabric, something tight coiling in her chest. "Thank you," she murmured. The nurse only hummed, already moving on to another task.

Then, later, when she stepped into the break room for a brief moment of reprieve, she found a neatly wrapped meal waiting for her. Someone had written her name on the container in slanted, hurried handwriting, the kind that spoke of someone who had barely had time to stop but had thought of her anyway. She blinked down at it, unsure of what to do.

Dr. Li, one of the older physicians, barely looked up from her cup of tea as she spoke. "Eat before you pass out," she said dryly. “You always skip lunch except for when you eat sweets.” She muttered with a head shake, as if recalling someone who did the same. She opened her mouth to argue, to insist that she was fine, but Dr. Li simply gave her a knowing look before turning back to her work.

And that was when it began to settle in—how much she had missed .

She had spent so long looking in one direction, chasing something that had only pushed her away, that she hadn’t noticed the hands that had been steadying her from the beginning.

How the cleaner always made sure her workspace was the first to be cleaned, the lingering scent of citrus filling the air before she even arrived in the morning. How the assistants always seemed to know when she needed a cup of tea instead of coffee, quietly setting it next to her before hurrying off to their next task. How her fellow nurses, though often exhausted themselves, never hesitated to take over her patients when she was too drained to continue.

She had been so fixated on Caleb—on the way he had dismissed her, on the sharp edges of his rejection—that she hadn’t even noticed the different kind of love surrounding her. It wasn’t romantic, wasn’t the desperate, all-consuming yearning she had poured into someone who had never wanted it.

But it was warm.

//

The night was quiet. She relished these small moments of solitude, the ritual of winding down, of shedding the weight of the day from her skin. The warm glow of her bedside lamp cast a soft haze over the room as she smoothed lotion over her arms and legs, the delicate scent of vanilla and white musk clinging to her skin. Her nightgown, silk and barely-there, brushed against her thighs as she moved, the fabric whispering against her as she padded barefoot across the cool floor. It was the type of night where she would take time and pamper herself, her body, her precious body that went through so much yet looked like it went through nothing at all. The world outside her quarters felt distant, her thoughts finally beginning to quiet as she sank into the stillness, into herself.

Then— the knocking.

Not a polite rapping, not a simple call for attention, but something urgent, relentless. A panicked rhythm that sent her pulse spiking.

Her body moved before her mind caught up, instinct honed by years in emergency medicine kicking in. Something was wrong. Someone needed her. She barely registered how quickly she crossed the room, how her fingers fumbled at the lock, the door swinging open in one fluid motion—

And then she froze.

Because it wasn’t an injured soldier or a frantic nurse standing on the other side of the threshold. It wasn’t some emergency requiring her steady hands and sharp mind. It was him.

Caleb.

He was breathing heavily, his shoulders rising and falling in uneven bursts, like he had run here without stopping. His shirt was slightly undone, collar loose, sleeves pushed up as if he had been gripping his hair in frustration. The air between them felt charged, thick with something wild —and yet, the first thing she noticed wasn’t the storm in his expression, or the barely contained desperation in his posture.

It was the way his gaze faltered for just a second.

Caleb had expected something different when she opened the door, maybe her in scrubs, exhausted and sterile-smelling. But instead, here she was, standing before him bathed in the golden glow of her room, silk skimming her curves, her bare skin dewy from lotion, the scent of something soft and intoxicating lingering in the air between them.

His lips parted, but nothing came out.

His chest rose sharply, but no words followed.

Because in that single, stolen heartbeat, he wasn’t Caleb, the sharp-tongued soldier, the man who had cut her down with cruel, venom-laced words. He wasn’t the man who had dismissed her, who had walked away without looking back. No, in that moment, he was just Caleb —a man who had spent the last few hours having his entire world upended, who had realized too late what had been right in front of him all along. And yet, the second passed, and reality came crashing down.

His jaw clenched, his fingers twitched at his sides. He forced himself to look past the silk, past the scent of her, past the softness that had distracted him for even a second. He had to focus. He had come here for a reason, hadn’t he? There had been something driving him to her door, something clawing at his insides, demanding—But now, standing here, standing this close , all of it was tangled up inside him, too many emotions knotted together in a violent mess. He didn’t even know where to start .

Her voice, careful and questioning, finally cut through the silence. " Caleb? "

And God, he hated the way it made his chest ache .

Her stomach drops. She’s not ready for this. Not ready to see him like this—raw and urgent, like he’s been chasing something, like he’s just realized something terrible.

For a moment, he just stares at her. And then, suddenly, he’s stepping forward. She backs up on instinct, but he follows—like he’s afraid she’ll disappear if he doesn’t close the distance.

"You knew," he says, voice hoarse. "You knew, and you didn’t tell me."

She blinks, her spine going rigid. "Knew what?"

Caleb exhales sharply, like he can’t believe she’s making him say it out loud. "What they did to you. I remember. I know everything."

The air is thick, suffocating, his presence too overwhelming, pressing in on her from all sides. The last time he had looked at her like this, the last time he had demanded answers from her, he had ripped her apart. And now, standing here, she can feel the old wounds straining, barely healed, fragile and aching, ready to split open again at the slightest touch.

Her heart pounds so hard she doesn’t even hear him properly, not really. His voice is just another layer of noise, another demand, another push against the cracks in her walls. He says he remembers, but what does he remember? What kind of twisted, reshaped, broken memory is he going to use against her this time? What kind of cruel test is this? What if this is just another game, another moment where he picks apart her words, twists them until she doesn’t even recognize them, until she’s the villain and he’s the wounded soldier, until she’s left scrambling, fighting to prove herself all over again?

She can’t do this. She won’t.

She shuts down.

"I don’t know what you’re talking about."

Caleb makes a noise in the back of his throat—frustration, desperation, something deep and unspoken. "Don’t—don’t do that," he says, shaking his head. "Don’t lie to me." His voice is thick, rough, too full of things she doesn’t understand.

She grips the doorframe tighter. "You should go."

But he doesn’t move. He’s still staring at her, something unreadable in his eyes. "I remember," he breathes, and the words make her stomach clench.

She doesn’t want to know what he remembers. She doesn’t want to hear it. Not if it means reopening wounds that haven’t even begun to heal. Not if it means letting him back in. How ironic. For all the physical wounds, cuts and injuries her body has gone through and repaired itself like she’s a monster—she couldn’t repair these feelings, these emotions, these mental scars. She can’t let him do this. 

"Caleb—"

"You were there," he presses, stepping closer again. "You were right there, in that facility, suffering just like the rest of us, and I—"

He stops, jaw clenching. She doesn’t know what he was going to say. And she doesn’t want to know. It doesn’t matter. It’s too late.

"You should go," she repeats, and her voice is colder this time.

His brows furrow, like he can’t understand why she’s acting like this. Like he expects her to break down, to let him in, to finally let the truth slip from her lips.

But she won’t.

Because this is exactly what he did before—demanding, pressing, backing her into corners, forcing her to prove herself when she never should have had to. She won’t play his game again.

Even if he’s being honest this time, even if something in his eyes is softer, she can’t take that risk. He ruined her once. She won’t let him do it again.

A part of her is waiting for it, for the moment he uses his evol, for the moment he tries to stop her, hold her in place, take control like he had before, take away her control to her body. She braces for it, her entire body wound tight, ready to fight, ready to run—but then he moves, and she flinches, expecting the worst. 

But his hands don’t seize her wrists to hold her down. They don’t pin her, don’t force her to stay. Instead, they catch hers, gripping tightly at first, urgent, desperate—and then softening. His fingers tremble slightly as they entwine with hers, as he slowly sinks to his knees in front of her, as if the weight of what he has done has finally crushed him.  

Her breath stutters in her throat, her body frozen, her heart hammering so violently it drowns out everything else. He bows his head, pressing her hands to his face, nuzzling into them like he needs her warmth to keep from falling apart. His breath is uneven, shuddering against her skin, and his voice—when he speaks—is raw and breaking.

"I’m sorry."

She swallows, her throat tight, her chest aching.

He’s never said those words to her before. Not like this. She wants to believe him. Wants to let the weight of his apology sink into her bones, wants to let it mend all the cracks he left inside her. But she can’t. Because it’s not enough . Before, it would have been everything to her but right now it’s not enough . 

Because if she lets herself believe him, if she lets herself hope, then she’ll have to open her heart again, and she can’t survive being broken again. She can survive broken bones, broken limbs, twisted skin, being torn apart til she’s nothing but hollow inside. But she can’t survive another heartbreak from him.  Her voice is barely there when she speaks, fragile and quiet and shaking.

"Please go."

Caleb tenses, his grip on her tightening for just a moment, like he wants to fight it, wants to say something, wants to stay. But then he looks at her. And whatever he sees in her expression—the fear, the exhaustion, the quiet, trembling devastation—it undoes him.

His hands loosen.

His gaze drops.

And then, finally, he lets go.

He rises slowly, hesitating like he wants to reach for her again, like he wants to find a way to fix this, to make her look at him the way she used to, before he ruined everything. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he steps back. Then another step. Then another.

She doesn’t watch him leave. She can’t. Because if she does, she might break. And she refuses to let him see her fall apart over him again. He’s the one who did this. And for once, he’s the one who has to walk away.

Chapter Text

Caleb leaves, and she shuts the door behind him, waiting—just waiting—for the silence to settle into something real. But it never does. His absence is a hollow thing, echoing too loud in the chambers of her heart, but she tells herself it's for the best. He will not return. She will not let him.

And yet, he does. Again. And again.

The first time, he seeks her out in the med bay, standing stiffly by the doorway as she works. She ignores him, methodically wrapping bandages around a soldier’s arm, her hands steady despite the way her pulse betrays her. His presence is suffocating, too much, too near, but she has trained herself well. He does not exist. Not in the way he once did.

“I just—” His voice falters, and that alone is enough to send a knife through her ribs. Caleb never falters. Caleb is iron, unwavering. But now, he stands before her, raw and stripped bare, fingers curling at his sides as if itching to reach for her. "I just want to talk."

She exhales slowly, like she’s letting go of something heavier than air. "I'm busy." A polite tone. Distant. Professional. "If you’re injured, take a seat. If not, I have work to do."

He hesitates. Lingers. And then, because she has given him no other choice, he leaves. But he does not stop.

The second time, she pretends not to see him.

It’s easier that way, to ignore the way his figure leans against the wall just outside the med bay, arms crossed, eyes sharp but uncertain. He’s waiting. For her.

She steps past him without hesitation, without so much as a glance, even as her pulse stutters in recognition. He doesn't speak. Doesn’t move. But she can feel the weight of his gaze trailing after her, lingering like an ache she refuses to acknowledge.

The third time, she has no choice but to acknowledge him.

She turns a corner too quickly, and there he is, standing in the center of the hallway. His eyes, storm-dark, unwavering—find hers immediately. There's a flicker of something in them, something almost relieved , as if her mere presence is enough to soothe whatever storm brews inside him.

It makes her furious. How dare he look at her like that? Like she is something lost he desperately needs to reclaim.

She squares her shoulders, smooths her features into a mask of indifference. A polite nod. Detached. Formal. She moves to step around him, but he shifts—not enough to block her, never that, but enough that she has to pause.

“I—” His voice catches, like he isn’t sure how to begin. “Can we talk?”

A breath. Measured. Unbothered. “We already have.” 

She steps past him.

“Wait— please .”

It’s that single word, please , that nearly unravels her. Caleb rarely pleads, even in game that was reserved for the game MC. He does not falter. He is iron and control, precision and certainty, fake smiles and a scrutinizing gaze. Yet here he stands, voice hoarse with something she refuses to name, eyes searching hers like they hold all the answers he has lost.

She swallows the lump in her throat. Forces herself to hold his gaze without betraying anything. “I have somewhere to be.”

“That’s a lie,” he says, not accusing, just… knowing. She smiles. Not a real one. Not the kind she used to give him, warm and eager, full of quiet devotion. No, this one is polished, practiced. The kind that keeps people at a distance. “I guess to you, that’s all I ever do.”

His expression shifts, like she’s struck something deep, but he doesn't correct her. He only exhales, slow and measured, as if steadying himself. “I just—” He swallows. “I just need a moment.”

She hates how much she wants to give it to him. Instead, she tilts her head, feigning consideration. “For what?”

Caleb hesitates. She sees the war in his eyes, the conflict, the unspoken things pressing against his chest, desperate to spill out. “I want to…apologize.” 

Caleb’s throat works around the words like they’re barbed, like speaking them aloud will carve open wounds he’s spent too long pretending weren’t there. His fingers curl at his sides, tightening into fists, then releasing just as quickly. He forces himself to hold her gaze, even as his own betrays the war inside him.

“For hurting you,” he says finally, voice low, unsteady. “For doubting you. For—” His breath shudders, his control fraying at the edges. “For mistaking you that you—” He stops himself, jaw clenching like the words are too dangerous to voice. Were one of the monsters in Ever. He cuts himself off, but it doesn’t matter. Because whatever he thinks he knows now—whatever memories he’s convinced himself are real—only makes something inside her twist into something sharp and unbearable.

Because she doesn’t know what’s real anymore.

Not with him. Not with the way his voice shakes, not with the way his eyes won’t leave hers, not with the way the air between them feels too heavy, too thick with things that can never be said.

He steps forward, slow and careful, like she’s something fragile, something that might shatter if he isn’t careful. 

“I’m sorry.” The words come out rough, like they’ve been clawing at his throat for weeks. “I should have believed you. I should have—” Another pause. He drags a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. “I should have protected you.”

Her breath catches. Just for a second. Just long enough for him to notice. She hates this. Hates how much she wants to believe him. How, for a moment, she almost lets herself drown in the sound of his voice—rough, unsteady, real . But the part of her that spent nights awake, replaying every cruel dismissal, every cold glance, every time he turned his back when she needed him most, refuses to let her forget.

She wanted this once. Begged for it. For him to look at her the way he is now, with something raw and broken in his gaze, as if the ground beneath him has been unsteady ever since she left. She wanted him to hear her out, to believe her, to see her. But he hadn’t. He’d stood there, cold and calculating, peeling her apart piece by piece, searching for something— anything —that would make her the enemy in his mind.

And now, after all this time, he wants to say sorry ?

No.

She can’t afford to fall into this. To trust that this—his voice, his words, the way his fingers twitch like he wants to reach for her—isn’t just another ploy. Another test. How can she believe that he means it when the last time she put her faith in him, he tore it apart?

So she keeps her face carefully neutral, even as her heart clenches at the way he looks at her—wrecked, desperate, like she’s the only thing tethering him to something real.

She wants to accept his apology. But she can’t .

Not when she had been the one on her knees, voice hoarse from pleading for him to listen. Not when he had let her shatter at his feet, unmoved, unaffected. Not when he hadn’t cared to believe her then—so why should she believe him now?

No matter how sincere he sounds, it all feels too much like a trap. She thinks he must still hate her. That he is only here because he needs something from her, because he has not yet unraveled all of her secrets. The thought strengthens her resolve. She will not be fooled again.

That’s dangerous.

So she tamps it down, buries it beneath layers of indifference, of detachment, of all the things she’s had to become to survive. She looks at him, eyes sharp with something unreadable. “I never asked you to.” I just wanted you to stand by me. 

His whole body goes still. Then she smiles, polite and professional, like they’re nothing to each other, like his words don’t burn through her skin. “If that’s all, I have somewhere to be.”

She walks away.

//

Caleb doesn’t have an excuse to seek her out—not really. But protocol dictates that all pilots undergo a routine assessment after a gruelling operation, and for once, he doesn’t put up a fight, doesn’t put it off til the last minute like he usually does. He goes straight to the med bay after getting back from the deepspace tunnel and his comrades are puzzled at his behavior. He waits his turn, standing in the med bay as others come and go, until finally, it’s his name being called. And it’s her.

She doesn’t hesitate when she sees him. No flicker of emotion, no warmth. Just a nod as she gestures for him to sit on the examination table. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does.

Caleb remembers when it was different.

It’s cruel, the way his memories sharpen at the worst possible times—like now, with her expression perfectly composed, cool, indifferent. She used to light up at the sight of him. He remembers that, too.

How she used to smile, small at first, hesitant, but full of something warm. Something unguarded. It was different from the way she looked at anyone else. Now, that warmth is gone. And it’s his fault.

He had been walking down the hallway, lost in thought, when he felt a presence beside him.

"Hey," she had greeted, that familiar brightness in her voice.

He barely turned his head. "Hey."

"Busy?"

"Not really."

"Huh. That’s a first."

She smiled, eyes shining like stars, like it was easy to talk to him. He didn’t know how to respond to people like that—people who weren’t trying to use him, manipulate him, outmaneuver him.

He had waited for her to get to the point, to ask for something. That was what people did, wasn’t it? They wanted things from him. But all she did was walk beside him, hands tucked behind her back, humming a little under her breath. Just existing in his space.

He hadn’t known what to do with that. So he said nothing. And eventually, when the silence became too much, she sighed, something faltering in her expression before she covered it with a smile.

"Guess I’ll leave you to it. See you around, Caleb."

She had wanted so badly for him to talk to her.

And he had never given her that.

She wanted to be in his world.

That realization settles deep in his chest like something heavy, suffocating. He didn’t recognize it then, too blinded by his own suspicions, too convinced she was playing some kind of game. He mistook her interest for calculation, her warmth for manipulation. And so he did what he thought was right. He kept his distance. He made it clear that he did not trust her, that he would not trust her. 

He remembers the way she used to linger near him, the way she always found reasons to be close. Back then, he had thought it was purposeful, deliberate—like she was trying to gain something from him. Now, he knows better. 

He lowers himself onto the cot, watching as she pulls on gloves with practiced efficiency. She’s different like this—focused, unreadable. There was a time when she would have tried to make conversation, filled the silence between them with soft, easy words. Now, she doesn’t even ask how he’s feeling. Just takes his wrist, pressing two fingers to his pulse.

Her touch is clinical, impersonal. Nothing like before.

"Any pain?" she asks, eyes scanning his file.

"Nothing serious."

She hums in acknowledgment, moving on. Checking for signs of strain, assessing minor scrapes and bruises. She’s methodical. Detached. And he hates it.

He remembers the way she used to linger—how, when she treated his wounds before, she would fuss over them longer than necessary. How she would scold him for taking reckless risks, for throwing himself into danger. He remembers the worry in her eyes, the way she used to care so openly, so fiercely. He used to think it was an act. A manipulation.

Now, he knows better.

"Hold still," she had murmured once, her fingers brushing over his skin with a touch far too gentle for someone he had barely spoken to.

Caleb sat on the med bay cot, his arm stiff as she wrapped fresh bandages over the cut along his forearm. He could have done it himself. Should have, probably. But she had taken the med kit from his hands before he could argue, her expression stubborn, determined. As if, she cared about him. She always lingered around him, always found reasons to be near. And he had pretended not to notice.

"You should be more careful," she had said, trying to make conversation, trying to get him to say something. "They told me this happened because you threw yourself in front of another pilot. Was that really necessary?"

Caleb exhaled, looking past her. "It was just instinct."

"That’s not an answer."

She was persistent. Always was.

"You do that a lot, you know. Putting yourself between others and danger."

He knew she was fishing for a response, trying to draw him into something that wasn’t just short, clipped answers that would force the conversation to an early death. But that was exactly what he had wanted. So he shrugged, shifting his arm away the moment she was done tying the bandage. "It’s nothing. I can handle it."

The disappointment in her eyes was fleeting, but he caught it. And ignored it. She sighed, packing up the supplies. "One day, you’re going to get yourself seriously hurt doing that."

He didn’t say anything, and the silence stretched too long between them. Eventually, she stood, smoothing down the hem of her sleeves before forcing a small smile.

"Well. Try not to get hurt again."

She had always tried to close the distance. And he had made sure it remained.

But now , that distance is all he has left, and he hates it. Hates the way she walks past him as if he is nothing more than a shadow in her periphery. Hates the way she no longer lingers when he enters a room, no longer reaches for conversation, no longer tries. Because he had destroyed that. With his silence. With his distrust. With the way he looked at her like she was a threat instead of someone who—

(Who what? Who wanted to be close to him? Who cared?)

His hands clench at his sides, nails digging into his palms. The regret doesn’t just sit in his chest—it festers, it burns. It carves into him with every memory, every stolen glance where she pretends not to see him. He had been so convinced he was protecting himself, but all he had done was ruin something before it could even begin. And now, when he finally wants to reach back, there’s nothing left to grasp onto. She used to look at him like he was something worth knowing, worth understanding. Now, she doesn’t look at him at all. 

She presses a cool antiseptic pad against a cut near his temple, and for a moment—just a moment—he lets himself lean into her touch. It’s instinctive, a quiet yearning for something he no longer deserves. But the second he moves, she pulls away. Steps back. The loss is immediate, a sharp, sinking thing in his chest.

"You're cleared," she says, already discarding her gloves, already moving on. "You're free to go."

That’s it. No extra words, no lingering glances.

He wants to say something—anything—to keep her here a little longer. But she’s already turning away, reaching for the next patient’s file.

And him?

He is left sitting there, aching for something he threw away.

//

He hadn’t been able to sleep. Not for days, not since the last time she looked at him with that cold, detached expression. It gnawed at him now, that old, familiar regret, but this time, it was unbearable. The guilt settled deep in his chest, heavy as a collapsing star, threatening to crush him under the weight of everything he had done, everything he had lost. He replayed their last encounters over and over in his mind, her voice, her expression, every moment where he had chosen to push her away.

“Stay away from me,” he had told her, his voice like ice. She hadn’t deserved his cruelty. She had never deserved it.

Caleb had been so certain back then—so convinced that she was just another piece in Ever’s twisted puzzle, another trick waiting to unravel. He thought he was protecting himself, protecting what little control he had left. But now, in the silence of his own thoughts, he saw the truth: she had never been the enemy. She had cared, even when he hadn’t given her a reason to. And he had destroyed that.

"I don’t trust people without a past…"

The words echoed in his mind, venomous and cruel, a wound that festered inside him. He slammed his fist against the wall in frustration, the impact dull, insignificant compared to the ache threatening to consume him whole. He hated himself. Hated the person he had been—the person who had looked at her and seen a lie instead of the only real thing that had ever been offered to him.

And the worst part? This wasn’t the first time he had failed her.

The memory of their childhood clawed its way back into his mind, unbidden and relentless. The cold, sterile walls of Ever’s facility, the unyielding silence that had filled the air, suffocating and absolute. He remembered the way fear had wrapped around his throat like a vice, the way the endless tests and brutal conditioning had chipped away at whatever fragments of innocence he had left. He remembered how, even back then, he had hesitated to trust her.

She had always been different. Where he had been quiet and calculating, always searching for the safest way to survive, she had been the voice cutting through the darkness. She had spoken when silence was the only thing Ever allowed them, whispering stories when the nights stretched too long, tracing constellations in the dark with her words alone. She had filled the emptiness with something that almost felt like hope.

“It’s okay,” she had said once, her small hand closing around his wrist, anchoring him when the world felt too sharp, too uncertain. “We’ll make it through this. We always do.”

He had wanted to believe her. He had wanted to hold onto that warmth, that quiet certainty in her voice. But he had been afraid. Trust was a weakness, and weakness was something they couldn’t afford. So he had kept his distance, let her words wash over him without ever reaching for them in return.

And when he had finally started to want to—when he had finally looked at her and thought, maybe —she was taken from them.

Ripped away. Just like that. He never even got to say goodbye.

And now, all these years later, after fate had somehow brought her back into his life, he had done it all over again. He had been given a second chance, and he had ruined it, just like before. Why did he not remember sooner? 

He needed to fix this. He needed to make up for it.

Caleb presses his palms against his eyes, exhaling sharply as if the motion alone could push his tears back. It doesn’t. His shoulders feel stiff, tension coiled deep in his muscles, his mind too tangled in the wreckage of his own thoughts. The room is dark, he hasn’t turned on the lamp. He hasn’t moved in what feels like hours.

Then, his phone buzzes.

He ignores it at first, too drained to care, too caught in the endless loop of regret gnawing at his mind. But then it vibrates again. And again. A rapid series of messages, relentless, cutting through the quiet like an alarm. He sighs, rubbing at his face before finally reaching for the device, his movements sluggish, reluctant.

A familiar name flashes across the screen.

[MC]: Caleb! Are you alive??
[MC]: Don’t tell me you forgot!
[MC]: Wait. You totally forgot.

His brow furrows slightly. His fingers hover over the keyboard, hesitating. There’s a strange feeling in his chest, something distant, like trying to recall the details of a dream already slipping away.

[Caleb]: Forgot what?

There’s a pause. Then another rapid burst of texts.

[MC]: Are you serious right now??
[MC]: A WEEK FROM NOW? Our visit?? To grandma’s place?? The one you literally never stop talking about??
[MC]: I swear, if you cancel at the last minute, I will break into your room and steal your coffee machine.

Caleb stares at the screen.

For a second, his mind is blank. Empty. Then it clicks.

His planned leave. The visit to their grandmother’s home. The one he had been preparing for, the one he always cleared his schedule for, making sure every mission, every task, every obligation was handled ahead of time. The one he always counted down to.

But now—

His stomach twists.

He did forget.

He forgot all about it.

Because of her.

Because every waking thought, every restless moment, every second of his goddamn day has been spent trying to reach someone who refuses to let him in. Someone who won’t forgive him. Someone who now despises him.

His grip tightens around the phone, an uncomfortable weight settling in his chest.

It used to be different.

Back then, he had spent months anticipating the visit. He had tied up every loose end, finished every mission early, just so he could spend time with MC, just so he could go back—to something warm, something familiar, something safe. That trip had always been a constant in his life, something untouched by the chaos, something that remained his even when everything else felt uncertain. She had been the most important thing in his life. Now, he can’t even remember the last time he thought about it. About her. And that realization shakes him.

His phone buzzes again.

[MC]: You okay? You’re weirdly quiet.
[MC]: Wait, don’t tell me you got caught up in something again?? You always do that!
[MC]: Fine, I’ll forgive you. But only if you promise not to ditch me!!

A part of him wants to say something. Wants to type out a quick reassurance, pretend like nothing has changed. But he hesitates.

Because something has changed.

And he doesn’t know what to do with that.

//

Things with Caleb were hard, and she wasn’t sure how to feel about that. He was so persistent—always there, always hovering just a little too close. It was exhausting, but at the same time, there was something conflicting about his attention. He never seemed to want to let her go and live her life without him. It was hard to think about it for too long, though. What she needed right now was distance, and that meant focusing on work.

She glanced around the bustling medical unit of the Deepspace Aviation Administration, a place she had come to enjoy despite the high pressure. There was something calming about the routine, the steady rhythm of caring for patients, the way everything clicked into place as she went about her duties. 

Back in her previous life, work had been all-consuming—she had been trapped in a cycle of self-pity and dissatisfaction, constantly feeling like she wasn’t good enough. Her coworkers had never been her friends. She had believed they couldn’t be. That kind of closeness wasn’t allowed in a professional environment, she’d told herself. But here, in this world, something was different. Maybe it was the camaraderie between the staff or the way the team worked so seamlessly together. Or maybe it was just that she was finally starting to let herself be a part of something, instead of keeping herself apart. Whatever the reason, she found herself looking forward to the shifts, even if Caleb’s shadow loomed in the background.

She was still figuring out what she wanted to do about him. But right now, at least, she didn’t have to think about him for a few hours. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps approaching, and she looked up to see Mira, the other nurse on shift. Mira was always the first to break the ice, always ready to chat, always bursting with energy. She smiled warmly as she approached, arms full of supplies.

“Hey, girl,” Mira greeted with her usual upbeat tone. “You ready to kick off another shift?”

She smiled back, feeling a flicker of warmth at the sight of Mira’s contagious energy. “I think so. It’s been a busy few days, busier than ever, but I’m getting the hang of things.”

Mira laughed, setting down her supplies with a thud. “I’m glad to hear it. You know, I’ve been thinking—if you need someone to talk to, I’m here. It’s not all work around here, you know. I mean, sure, we’re professionals, but we’re also human.”

She chuckled, feeling a little awkward at the sudden openness. “I guess I’ve always been a little... distant. You know, work has always been my focus.”

Mira raised an eyebrow as she opened a packet of snacks. “Work’s important, but so are people. I mean, you deserve to have a good time and to make some real connections, right?”

Her eyes flickered with surprise, and she nodded slowly. “Yeah... I suppose. I never really had that before.”

Mira’s gaze softened, and she leaned in a little, her voice quieter now. “I get that. I’ve been there too. You know, I recently broke up with a guy... he cheated. It took me a while to realize it, but it felt good to walk away from that.”

Her heart clenched, an instant pang of empathy shooting through her. She had been there before, in her past life, tangled in a relationship that made her feel small and unimportant. She didn’t hesitate this time, her voice steady and soft as she spoke. “It’s good that you left him. Honestly, guys who cheat—they do it because they want to. It’s never about you, no matter what they try to say. It took me too long to realize that.”

Mira blinked, clearly not expecting the depth of her response, but she nodded slowly. “Yeah... I’ve heard that, but it’s hard to believe it when you’re in the middle of it, you know?”

“I know,” she said, feeling a little surprised by how comfortable she felt sharing that piece of herself with Mira. “But you did the right thing. It’s not about being enough for them. It’s about not letting them make you feel like you’re not.”

Mira gave her a knowing look. “Babe, you’re speaking from experience, aren’t you?”

She smiled softly. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Mira grinned, nudging her playfully. “You know what? I’m glad you said that. You’re right. I am better off. I didn’t need that drama.”

They fell into a comfortable silence for a moment, each of them settling into the rhythm of getting ready for the shift. But despite the busy nature of the room, something about this conversation felt light—like a weight had been lifted, and it wasn’t just the work they were going to do. The words she spoke to Mira were words she had needed back then, when her bastard of a boyfriend cheated on her and she blamed herself for being too busy, too inattentive, too unattractive. It’s what a good friend would have said in a situation like that. 

“I guess I’ve never really had a friend before,” she said quietly, more to herself than to Mira.

Mira stopped what she was doing and turned to face her, eyebrows raised. “Wait, what?”

“I mean... yeah, I don’t know. I’ve never really connected with people that way before.” She laughed, feeling a little embarrassed. “It’s kind of weird, actually.”

Mira’s grin widened, and she shook her head, incredulous. “Girl, what do you mean? Aren’t we already friends?”

She blinked, a little taken aback. “We are?”

“Hell yes! We’re totally friends now, and you can’t back out of it,” Mira said, the teasing tone light and playful. “You’re stuck with me. Deal with it.”

She laughed, the sound unexpectedly bright and free. The weight of Caleb, the loneliness she’d carried, didn’t feel so heavy anymore. She might not have figured everything out yet, but she was starting to see that maybe it wasn’t about having everything perfect. It was about allowing herself to be part of something.

“Alright, fine,” she said with a mock groan. “I guess I’ll deal with it.”

Mira grinned, hands on her hips. “You better. And we’re going out for coffee and cake on our next day off, so get ready.”

Her heart warmed at the thought, a little thrill of excitement running through her. “Caffeine and sweets? You already know me too well.”

Mira shot her a wink. “I do know you now, don’t I?”

She smiled, feeling lighter than she had in a long time. Maybe this was the start of something good. She wasn’t sure yet what it would mean, but at least now she had a friend—someone who saw her, who wasn’t just another person in her life passing by. It really felt nice to be seen.

//

[MC]: Caleb? You there?

[MC]: Im getting worried…

[MC]: If you don’t reply im not going to buy your favorite snacks

[MC]: Okay I already bought them but ill be eating them

[MC]: Caleb?

[MC]: don’t make me come and get you

//

Chapter Text

The scent of vanilla and chamomile filled the air, a cool sensation curling around her face as she carefully smoothed a hydrating mask over her skin. Her reflection in the small mirror on her desk was soft under the dim glow of the bedside lamp, her hair loosely tied back to keep it from getting in the way. She let out a soft sigh as her reflection blinked back at her, tired but a little brighter than yesterday.

“Okay, you still look like a person,” she mumbled, reaching for her scented lotion.

She liked this time of night. 

Tonight was one of her “reset” nights—the once-a-week promise she kept to herself, no matter how chaotic things got. No skipped steps, no excuses. Just her, her overpriced skincare lineup, and the illusion that everything was under control. Like everything was all fine, like she hadn’t been elbow-deep in blood and antiseptic wipes all day. 

Soft light spilled across her sheets, catching faint glints of the tiny glow-in-the-dark stars peppered along the ceiling—uneven and mismatched, a patchwork galaxy she’d stubbornly assembled over time. On her nightstand, a star chart sat tucked beneath a half-read book, its edges worn from thumbing through it on restless nights.

She perched on the edge of her bed, thick, vanilla-scented lotion warming between her palms. She always did her legs first—working from ankle to knee in slow, practiced motions, fingers kneading the tired muscles beneath her skin. It felt good, grounding. The repetition, the softness, the quiet—it was the one time in the week she gave herself time to just be gentle.

If the world wasn’t going to be kind to her body, then she would.This was her quiet rebellion. Her apology to herself for all the times she'd had to run, to fight, to hurt—just to keep going. Just to stay alive. All those moments something had been taken from her. 

Tonight, she gives back, makes up for it as much as she can. 

Mira’s voice crackled through her comms, hovering from where it was propped on the nightstand.  “So, is your toothbrush purple too?”

“No,” she said, laughing softly as she smoothed lotion over the back of her hand, working it into the skin between her fingers. “It’s pink. But everything else is purple, yeah. Don’t judge me, it’s a comforting color.”

Mira snorted through the comms. “Comforting? You sleep in a lavender crime scene.”

She let out a snicker, trailing her palm up the length of her forearm, kneading in the rich cream until the skin gleamed faintly. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

Her eyes drifted to her bed as she switched arms—plush violet duvet, lilac pillowcases, and a faded lavender throw she’d picked up during a resupply run, now softened with age and too many washes. It was probably a bit much, but it made the sterile metal walls of the dorm unit feel like hers. Warm. Soft.

She rolled her shoulder and pressed her palm over the joint, letting the warmth of her touch ease the tension. “Sue me for wanting some serotonin,” she muttered.

“Your serotonin is blinding,” Mira teased. 

There was a beat of silence before Mira’s voice softened just slightly. “Hey. You sound better today.”

She paused mid-motion, fingers hovering over her other shoulder. “Better?”

“Yeah,” Mira said simply. “I don’t know, you just seem more… yourself. Like you’re actually here , instead of just getting through the day.”

Her breath caught for a second, the words settling in a place she hadn’t fully acknowledged yet.

She had been distant before. Always waiting for something—someone. But lately, things had started shifting, like she was finally learning how to be present in her own life instead of chasing ghosts. Or, more accurately, instead of chasing him .

Her gaze flickered toward the window, where the distant glow of station lights pulsed beyond the glass.

Caleb.

The one who used to ignore her. The one who had once looked right through her, like she was something inconvenient, something temporary. And now? Now he hovered—watched her too closely, lingered in places he never used to, always appearing just when she thought she’d finally gotten some distance.

It was suspicious. And it was exhausting.

She had spent so long wishing for his attention. For something—anything—from him. But now that she had it, she wasn’t sure she wanted it anymore. Or maybe she was just trying to convince herself.

“You still there?” Mira’s voice pulled her back, and she cleared her throat, shaking off the thoughts before they could settle too deeply.

“Yeah, sorry. Just got distracted.”

Mira hummed knowingly. “Hmm. By a certain someone, perhaps?”

She rolled her eyes. “Absolutely not.”

“Liar.”

She groaned. “Good friends don’t call each other liars.”

Mira snorted. “Good friends call each other out . Now spill. I saw you zoning out earlier, and I have a strong suspicion it has to do with a certain brooding enigma.”

She sighed, flopping onto her side.

Mira’s voice turned thoughtful. “So… what are you and the handsome, brooding fighter pilot, exactly?”

Her breath hitched slightly, caught off guard by the question.

What were they?

She had wanted to be someone to him. His support. Someone he could lean on, someone he saw . She had wanted him to look at her the way he did when she played the game, when he was unwavering in his devotion to the girl behind the screen.

The bond between them had barely begun to form before they were separated. And now? Now they were as good as strangers. In her past life it had all been fun and games—pre-programed responses, flirting, comforting, scripted . But here, in this life of never ending mind games and twisted memories, they were nothing . 

Just echoes of something that never got the chance to become real. Echoes in space. 

“I don’t know,” she admitted.

Mira didn’t push, just let out a quiet hum of understanding.

She swallowed, gripping the edge of her blanket.

They were nothing and it was about damn time to stop trying to be something. 

(Her heart protests in silence.)

//

Caleb hadn’t slept.

Not really, anyway. A few hours at most, broken and restless, his brain caught in a loop of images and voices that refused to fade no matter how many cold showers he took or how long he ran drills. The headaches had started creeping in again, dull and persistent, making the edges of the world blur when he turned too fast.

He’d expected to be reprimanded. That’s usually how it went. Push too hard, too long, and someone noticed. 

His squad had noticed. The way he flinched under bright lights. The way he sometimes forgot where he was mid-sentence, only to laugh it off, masking exhaustion with that same easy charm he always used when things cracked under the surface.

“You’re going to the med bay,” the Commander said after the third time Caleb flinched under the fluorescent lights. “I don’t want you passing out mid-drill and you’re overdue for a psych evaluation anyway so go get that done. Go.”

They thought he’d brush it off. Flash a tired grin. Say he was fine, just tired, promise he’d rest up after training. They were used to that Caleb—cheerful, steady, untouchable. What they didn’t expect was the way he immediately nodded and stood.

No protest. No delay.

Just a quiet, “Understood,” and then he was gone.

He moved so fast, someone actually joked that he must’ve won the lottery.

But Caleb wasn’t heading toward rest. He wasn’t even heading toward relief. He was heading toward her.  He couldn’t stop thinking about her. 

He told himself it was the connection. Almost the same kind of pull he felt with her—MC. The same instinct to protect, to draw near, to stay. Maybe it was that. Maybe he just missed being needed. But that wasn’t the full truth.

Because deep down, she intrigued him.

Even back then. Even now.

Truthfully, ever since that first time they collided in the hallway of the medical wing, he hadn’t been able to forget her. Not because it was dramatic or special—just a quick impact, the shuffle of shoes, a sharp intake of breath—but because of the way she looked at him. Not just startled. But with something else—something deeper. Recognition. Longing. Affection.

It had unsettled him.

People usually saw him as cheerful, easygoing—Caleb, the golden boy of the squad, the one who could smooth tension with a grin and keep morale high when everything else fell apart. And that was fine. That was how he preferred it. No one had to know what he kept buried under the surface. The guilt. The fractures. The darkness that sometimes clawed at his ribs when the lights went out. 

But she had looked at him like she knew.

And that had terrified him.

Because how could a stranger meet his eyes like that, as if she already missed him?

He remembered brushing it off at the time. Dismissing the warmth in her gaze as misplaced familiarity. A trick. A threat. Something that could unravel him if he let it. He told himself it was dangerous. But deep down, he already knew that moment had embedded itself into him like a thorn he couldn’t stop touching.

The doors to the med bay hissed open. The light here was gentler—clinical, soft—but it still made something behind his eyes throb. Like a headache brewing too long beneath skin. Like a bruise on his brain he didn’t remember earning.

He stepped in. Quiet. Focused. Not because he felt calm. But because he’d spent the entire walk down here holding himself together.

And then he saw her.

She had a tray in her hands—vials, antiseptics, bandage rolls all lined with precision—and a slight hitch in her posture as she turned, just barely registering his presence before she looked away. Purposefully. Like he wasn’t even there. His breath caught in his throat.

It wasn’t sharp, or loud, or noticeable from the outside. It was quiet. Devastatingly so. Like being punched, but not in the way that rattled bone. No, it was that slow, nauseating kind—the kind that made your chest cave in on itself and left you breathless for reasons you couldn’t name.

He hadn’t seen her in days. But he’d felt it. Her absence. The way his world had gone just a little quieter, a little colder, like someone had dimmed the sun behind a sheet of frost and expected him not to notice. And now—now that she was right there, just a few feet away—it still didn’t feel like enough.

“Caleb, right?”

A voice broke through. Another nurse—a guy in his early thirties with a clipboard and a tired kind of friendliness—stepped toward him.

“You’re up for your psych evaluation?”

Caleb blinked. It took a second to drag his gaze away from her back as she turned down another corridor.

“Yeah,” he said. His voice was quieter than he meant. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah. That’s me.”

The nurse nodded and tapped the screen.

“Also—” Caleb hesitated, forcing his hands into his jacket pockets before they could twitch, “—uh. If it’s possible, I haven’t really been sleeping. Could I… get something? Just something mild. I think the headaches are from that.”

The nurse looked up. “You’ve been having sleep trouble?”

“For a while now.” He shrugged like it didn’t matter. “It’s nothing serious. Just… hard to stay asleep.” 

The nurse nodded again, more thoughtfully this time. “We’ll note that down. Doc might prescribe something light, if you’re not already on anything.”

“No,” Caleb said. “I haven’t taken anything.”

He could still feel her in the room. Her presence lingered like gravity. Pulling at him. Like the whole room tilted slightly in her direction. 

“Hey,” the nurse turned, calling out to her, “you’re the only one free, right?”

She hesitated. He caught the way her shoulders tensed, the way she flicked her gaze to the rest of the bay—looking for an out. Anyone else. Anyone but him. He should’ve expected it. Still stung, though. He couldn’t even blame her.

“Yeah, I can take him,” she said finally. Her voice was so professional it almost felt like a slap. Caleb stood still, trying not to look like he felt anything. He wasn’t sure how to exist in this moment—wasn’t sure how to be near her again when every part of him was too frayed to handle it.

She didn’t say anything—just called his name softly and nodded for him to follow. She led the way with measured strides, her shoes whispering against the tile. The soft buzz of overhead lights and the distant beep of monitors filled the silence between them. She didn’t look back to see if he was following, didn’t slow her pace, didn’t speak.

She didn’t need to. 

He would’ve followed her anywhere.

The door to Exam Room 3 hissed open with a muted press of her access card. She stepped inside, chart in hand, moving like she belonged in this space. He stepped in behind her, and for a brief moment, the scent of her shampoo—clean, faintly floral—wrapped around him before she pulled away.

“Sit,” she said gently, nodding toward the padded bench near the vitals monitor.

Caleb obeyed, the synthetic cushion cold beneath his palms. He watched her from the corner of his eye as she set the clipboard down, gloved up, and moved with that same crisp efficiency he remembered. Fast. Focused. Fluid. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t stumble.

Everything she did had a rhythm, as if she was moving to a song only she could hear.

God, he thought. She’s beautiful.

It wasn’t fair, the way she looked in her uniform—simple and professional, yet every detail was etched into his mind like she belonged there. Her hair was pulled back with quiet precision, not a strand out of place. Her brows were drawn in concentration, lashes casting soft shadows under her eyes as she read his chart, tapping notes into the tablet.

“I didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, voice lower than intended.

She didn’t turn around. Just answered flatly, “I work here.”

“Right.”

He winced internally the moment the word left his mouth.

Right. What a stupid thing to say. He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly feeling like a rookie again. Like some green recruit fumbling through his first mission.

“Any recent medications?” she asked, voice low and even.

“No,” he replied.

She didn’t comment. Just typed.

“Roll up your sleeve, please.”

He did as told.

Her fingers grazed his forearm as she fitted the cuff, adjusting it snugly before pressing a few buttons on the monitor. She watched the numbers flash to life, her eyes darting between screens and vitals, not once looking at him—not properly.

He studied the angle of her face, the soft line of her jaw, the way she chewed the inside of her cheek when the readings took too long.

“I, uh… haven’t been sleeping,” he said. “Figured I’d ask the doc about something for that.”

She nodded, not looking up. “I’ve noted it in your chart.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Right.”

She released the cuff and moved seamlessly to his pulse ox, pressing the sensor onto his finger. Her hands were steady, and they didn’t linger. No hesitation. No falter. But there was distance in every movement, like she’d built a wall around herself with gloves and protocol and silence.

She took his temperature next—infrared, a quick pass across his forehead—then tapped again at the chart. Every movement was quick, precise, business-like. And every second of it carved into him like a slow bleed.

She tapped a few things into the tablet, her fingers gliding across the screen with mechanical precision. 

She mumbles. “Vitals stable. Pulse elevated,” That wasn’t a surprise. Caleb wasn’t sure if it was the lack of sleep or the way her fingers had just barely grazed his skin that did that. 

“Alright,” she said at last, voice low but firm. “All done.”

She set the tablet back into its cradle by the counter and turned toward the door.

“Please wait here. Dr. Li will be with you shortly.”

She started toward the door with the kind of calm he envied—quiet, collected, already a hundred miles away.

“Wait,” he said suddenly, the word leaving him before he could stop it.

She paused. Hand on the door. Her shoulders didn’t shift, didn’t tense. But she didn’t move. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears.

“I just…”

Say something. Anything. Don’t let her go. Not again.

But the words tangled behind his teeth. There was too much he wanted to say, and none of it made sense. Not now. Not like this. He didn’t want to make her uncomfortable—didn’t want to make her hate him. But damn it, he missed her. He missed her in a way that felt cellular, like she was a part of him that had been ripped away and he couldn’t function properly without it.

He wished she’d look at him properly. Even just once. Just so he could remember what it felt like to be seen.

Her voice, when it came, was quiet. Even. Barely above a whisper. “If there’s nothing, I have work to attend to.” She didn’t wait for his answer.

The door slid open and she stepped out without looking back.

The room felt colder without her in it. He’d wanted to ask her how she’d been. If she’d slept. If her eyes always looked that tired now or if it was just because of him. He’d wanted to say I’m sorry. Or maybe I remember you too. I just didn’t understand it at first.

But what right did he have to say any of that? None . 

Were they too broken to fix?

//

She walked.

Not quickly. Not hurriedly. Just with enough control to make it look like she wasn’t running. Her steps echoed faintly down the corridor, steady in rhythm but too careful, like her legs would buckle if she gave in to the real pace her heart was beating. She didn’t look back. She didn’t allow herself even a glance at the door she’d just closed behind her.

It was only once she turned the corner—out of sight, out of range—that the breath she’d been holding slipped out all at once, ragged and uneven. Her fingers twitched against the tablet she was holding, and her shoulders folded inward as if her chest couldn’t carry its own weight anymore.

Her hands were shaking. She hated that. It was a subtle tremble, the kind no one else would notice unless they were close enough to feel it. But she felt it. Every twitch of her fingers, every tremor in her palms, betrayed just how hard she’d been clenching herself in. She leaned against the wall—cool, painted metal beneath her back—tilted her head up, and closed her eyes.

Her breath stuttered again.

She’d done it. She’d kept her voice level. She’d wrapped the blood pressure cuff around his arm like she wasn’t imagining the warmth of his skin. She’d clipped the sensor to his finger without once thinking about the way his hands clung to her that night he begged for forgiveness, how careful he had been when he touched her, even when he was unraveling. She had pressed the thermometer to his forehead and not even let herself flinch at the closeness.

She didn’t say a word about the deep hollows under his eyes. About the pallor that wasn’t there a week ago. About the way his uniform hung just slightly looser on his frame. She didn’t ask why he hadn’t been sleeping, why his eyes—once too bright, always too alive, or even dark with determination—looked dimmed now, like the weight of something unspeakable had settled behind them.

She didn’t tell him that she noticed. Because she wasn’t supposed to. Because if she opened that door even a crack, everything she’d built inside herself—every line she’d drawn, every wall she’d erected, every bruise she’d painted over with silence—would come undone.

She had told herself she was done. Over it. She had whispered that lie so many times now, she could almost make herself believe it. Almost. But it was never the lie that hurt. It was how easily her heart betrayed her the moment she saw him again.

She still loved him.

God, she hated that she did.

She had tried—really tried—to pull herself out of it. Told herself it was infatuation, just projection. That what she felt was a residue of something imagined. That she’d fallen for the idea of him, the version of Caleb she met first in a world that wasn’t real. The game-version of him who bled for his team, who wore his heart like armor, who stood in front of his friends when danger came and laughed like he wasn’t already grieving something he couldn’t name.

But then she came here. And he was real. And he was still all those things—and more.

And less.

He was flawed. He was complicated. There were shadows behind his eyes and sharpness in the way he pulled away, and he had hurt her. Deliberately. Cruelly. He had left marks on her that she’d tried so hard to hide beneath her skin.

And even now, after everything, she wanted to tell him to rest. To eat. To stop trying to carry everything alone. She wanted to ask him what was keeping him up at night.

But she’d trained herself to stay quiet. To survive his silence with silence of her own. Because what would’ve happened if she’d stayed? If she’d turned around in that room and said, You look like hell. Are you okay? Please, take care of yourself more.

She would’ve been pulled right back in.

And he wasn’t safe. Not for her. Not anymore. She couldn’t trust him.

She tried to steady her breathing, but her chest still rose too fast, too shallow. She pushed away from the wall, fingers tightening around the tablet, grounding herself in its weight. Her gloves felt suffocating now, like she needed to peel them off just to feel something again.

Instead, she straightened.

One breath. Two.

Then she walked.

Back into routine. Back into the numb repetition of tasks that didn’t ask her heart for an opinion. He was just another patient. That was what she would tell herself. That was the role she knew how to play. But the truth had already dug itself too deep. And no matter how far she tried to bury it beneath professionalism and protocol and a hundred thousand careful silences, the ache never really left.

It pulsed beneath her sternum like something alive.

//

Caleb had just about started to head back to his quarters, falling short to get an approval from the doctor to get back to training. His thoughts still tangled in the mess of his emotions, when he heard a light chuckle. His head snapped up, eyes scanning the hallway. It took a second, but then he saw her—standing just around the corner, a grin plastered on her face.

"Well, well, well," she said with a playful lilt in her voice. "Look who finally shows up."

He froze. “What—how—when did you—”

Before he could finish the sentence, she was already taking a step forward, her arms instinctively reaching out toward him. The moment she was close enough, she pulled him into a hug, and Caleb couldn’t help but tense in surprise.

But then, something about the way she held him, the way she pressed herself into him like it was the most natural thing in the world, melted whatever hesitation he had left. He wrapped his arms around her without thinking, returning the embrace as if they’d never been apart.

It was like stepping back into a world he knew so well. Her familiar scent, the feel of her, the warmth of her presence—it was everything that had been missing. It wasn’t anything romantic, not in the way he might have wanted it to be back then. No, this was the kind of hug you gave someone you trusted with your life, someone who had been there for you through it all.

But then, there it was. That moment of hesitation. It was subtle, just a slight shift in the air, the smallest of pauses that didn’t feel quite like it used to. His heart skipped, and he felt his grip falter, just for an instant. It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the need that had once flooded his chest, the frantic, desperate desire to hold her close, to feel the warmth of her touch like it was the only thing that could keep him from falling apart. No, this was something else. Something quieter, something softer.

He still felt fondness, relief even, but it was different. It wasn’t that consuming, urgent longing that used to come with every touch, every moment they shared. It wasn’t the fiery yearning to have her in his life in a way that was deeper than anything else. No, now, there was only friendship. A deep, steady care that came with the passage of time, with the years they had spent together. 

And in that moment, he realized something that he hadn’t fully admitted to himself until now: the place she had once held in his heart—she no longer filled that space. Not in the same way. Not as his love, his obsession, the one he had tried to protect, to claim as his own. That had shifted.

The other one—the one who had quietly, without him even realizing it, crept into his heart—had taken that place.

Her.

She had changed him, irrevocably, without him even knowing when it happened. Caleb couldn’t deny it now. His heart didn’t race at the thought of MC anymore. The burning need to have her love, to have her in his arms like this—gone. It had faded, replaced by a steady, almost peaceful feeling that had grown from something deeper, something quieter.

He held her a moment longer, though. For MC. For everything they had shared. Because it wasn’t just a hug, not for him, and he knew that. It was years of memories, years of them leaning on each other, fighting side by side, laughing together. Her heart was beating against his chest, and he could feel her relief, her joy in the simple act of being close again. His own heart was racing, not from anything more than the overwhelming sense of comfort she brought. This wasn’t about longing or anything complicated. This was just about her , him , and the undeniable bond they shared. So, despite the shift in his chest, despite the way his arms felt heavy with the weight of a truth he wasn’t sure he was ready to face, he held on. 

MC’s heart swelled with happiness because Caleb—her best friend, her brother in all but blood—was here. He was standing right in front of her again after what felt like an eternity of waiting. She didn’t sense any hesitation from him at first, not when they embraced. He was familiar, and that was all she needed. She had missed him so much. It wasn’t about longing for him as anything more than a companion. No, this hug was simply her way of saying, I’m glad you’re here, and I missed you.

But then, there was that tiny shift. A slight pause. She didn’t pull away—she held on a little tighter, just for a second, not quite sure why the hug had changed, why something in the air felt a little different. But it didn’t matter. Caleb was still Caleb, and this was still the same familiar comfort that came with his presence.

When they finally pulled apart, it was as if the world had momentarily shifted back into place. She didn’t say anything for a beat, but her eyes were soft, and her smile was unguarded. Caleb, still caught in the unexpectedness of the moment, tried to make sense of it.

“I wasn’t expecting you,” he muttered, his voice a little more strained than he intended, though he didn’t quite understand why.

“Oh, you know, I got tired of waiting for your slow replies,” she teased, her tone light but edged with a playful challenge. She bounced up to him, completely unfazed by the tension that had settled in his chest. “I may or may not have snuck into the security tight area. You’re pretty easy to get around when you're not paying attention, you know?”

Caleb’s brows furrowed, and his hands clenched at his sides. “You did what? You snuck in?” His voice wavered slightly, despite his best efforts. "That's reckless—what if someone noticed?" He glanced around, half expecting alarms to go off any second.

MC just laughed, all light and carefree, as though her actions weren’t a potential security disaster. “Oh, please. I didn’t sneak in,” she teased, rolling her eyes. “Thanks for thinking I could, by the way. I was given a pass to enter. It’s part of my mission, you know?” Her grin grew wider. “But it sure was fun watching you freak out for a second.”

Caleb blinked, still processing the words. “Mission? What are you talking about?”

She shrugged casually, unfazed by his reaction. “It’s a simple drop-off. The DAA needed something delivered from the Hunter Association that they couldn’t trust anyone else to ship over. Can’t have sensitive material going missing, right?” Her grin grew wider, proud of her little secret. “So, guess who they sent to make sure it didn’t disappear?” She winked at him

“Plus, you were taking forever to answer my messages, so I decided to come check on you.” Her smile, her voice, her eyes softened. “Seeing you was just a bonus. I do miss you, Caleb. It’s been months, hasn’t it? Have you forgotten about me?” She was teasing but Caleb felt that quiet ache inside. The girl in front of him was the one he used to know—the one who was by his side growing up. 

Caleb opened his mouth, but the words didn’t come out right away. The guilt hit him like a wave, crashing over him, his mind racing through everything he had been avoiding. “I wasn’t—I didn’t forget, I just—”

“Relax, Cal,” she interrupted, holding up a hand to stop him before he could spiral. “I know. You’re busy. I’m not that mad.” She tilted her head, her smile softening just a little more. 

“Alright…” Caleb’s brows knit together as he looked at her, his concern not fading. “Still… you should be careful. You don’t know what kind of trouble you’re walking into.”

She laughed lightly, a carefree sound that sent a strange mix of relief and frustration through him. “Of course, I’ll be careful. I’m not stupid, Cal.” She winked at him, trying to brush off his worry. “Besides, I’m not exactly helpless, you know?”

“I know,” Caleb muttered, but his frown didn’t lift. “Just promise me you’ll stay safe, alright?”

She placed a hand over her heart with a teasing expression. “I promise, Cal. I’ll come back in one piece, okay?” He didn’t seem convinced, but he nodded anyway. "Good. Just... don't do anything reckless, alright?"

“Always the worrywart,” she teased, a familiar spark in her gaze. “I’m just here to drop off something. It’s not like I’m going on some death mission.” She smirked playfully, nudging his shoulder. “But, hey, once I’m done, maybe you can show me around this place? If that’s allowed, of course.” She raised an eyebrow, the playful challenge in her tone unmistakable.

Caleb blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the suggestion.

 "Yeah... sure, I’ll show you around. Once you’ve finished whatever it is you’re here to do."

She grinned widely, her expression filled with a mix of satisfaction and mischief. “I knew I could count on you.” She gave him a light shove, as though they were still the same old team, the same old friends. “Alright, I’ll get going. But don’t go running off into some crisis while I’m gone, alright?”

Caleb couldn’t help but smile despite the knot in his stomach. “I’ll be fine. You, on the other hand, should be careful.”

She laughed again, that teasing, carefree sound that always managed to make him feel like everything would be okay, even if only for a moment. “Of course. I’ll be fine.” She gave him one last wink before turning on her heel and heading down the hallway, her steps light, her energy unchanged. The same happy, bickering girl he had always known, effortlessly slipping back into the rhythm they’d once shared.

Caleb watched her go, a quiet sadness settling over him. The reunion had been short, too brief, and yet there was no ache in his chest this time. No longing, no desperate desire to hold on to something that once was.

Chapter Text

The med bay was quiet—late afternoon light dimmed through the tinted windows, casting soft shadows over the sterile surfaces. She was just restocking the cold packs when the doors slid open behind her.

A voice: “She said she’s fine, but I—I figured better safe than sorry…”

She turned toward the sound—and then stopped.

The pilot, a younger recruit she’d only met in passing, was helping someone through the entrance. Not dragging, not rushing—just gently guiding. And the girl beside him walked steady, one hand cradling her elbow, the other stained faintly with blood.

The world tilted.

It was MC.

She blinked once. Twice. Her breath caught in her throat, disbelief flooding her system like ice water. Her mind couldn’t reconcile it at first—because she wasn’t seeing a model on a splash screen, or the vague shadow render the game allowed in dialogue scenes. No, this was her. Real. Full-featured. Full-grown.

She’d been with MC—once as a child, sobbing quietly in a sterile hallway, holding Caleb’s hand with trembling fingers. Then again, years later, during her internship—a quick pass in the crowd, her face still small, still half-lost behind the collar of a school uniform too big for her. That little girl had cried herself hoarse more nights than she wanted to remember. And now—

Now MC was a woman.

MC’s hair had grown long—perfectly straight, impossibly neat. How does she keep it like that, she had wondered, through missions, training, skirmishes? It framed her face gently, swaying with every step like silk in motion. Her jaw had sharpened with time. Her steps were steadier now, deliberate. She walked like someone used to danger. A newbie hunter, maybe. Still learning, still adapting—but capable . Alert . Strong .

MC looked nothing like the way she used to customize her—none of the features she had spent hours on editing present—but exactly like the promotional renders the company had pushed. Like the face they used for the official cards where she would seldomly appear. It was surreal.

She’s beautiful.

But the childish charm was still there. That wide-eyed curiosity. The strange brightness in her gaze that never dulled, no matter what version of her appeared onscreen. The thing that made people instinctively want to shield MC, even when she was the one wielding the weapon.

The moment shattered when she noticed the blood.

Without thinking, she crossed the room.

“What happened?” her voice snapped, low and sharp, as she reached for gloves.

MC blinked at her, surprised. “It’s not a big deal—”

“What happened?” she repeated, already grabbing the antiseptic.

The pilot shifted awkwardly, cringing. “There was a—malfunction. One of the external pressure valves in the southeast corridor near Bay D. It just—vented all at once. I swear I checked the calibrations yesterday—”

“She was right beside it,” She said tightly, examining the torn uniform sleeve. Blood had matted against the skin at MC’s elbow, not too deep but long, thin, and fresh. There were scrapes along her arm and shoulder too, the sort you got when metal caught skin during a sudden burst. Her pulse kicked up. “You should’ve called for emergency response. What if it had been worse?”

“I thought—she said she was fine—”

She turned slightly, not even looking up as she replied, “You’re not supposed to take ‘fine’ as a diagnosis.”

MC raised both eyebrows, clearly amused. “You’re kind of intense, aren’t you?”

“You’re bleeding.”

The pilot mumbled something about filing a report and vanished quickly.

She didn’t notice. Her attention was laser-focused as she ushered MC toward the padded cot, pulled the tray closer, and began cleaning the wounds with swift, precise movements. She didn't even realize how fast she was moving—her body was already ahead of her mind.

“Really, I’m okay,” MC said again, gentler this time.

“You were lucky,” she replied, eyes focused on the saline rinse. “Another inch and your wrist would’ve shattered.”

MC chuckled softly then. A sudden, breathy sound. Like a secret being let out by accident.

She looked up. “What’s funny?”

MC tilted her head. “Sorry. Just… you feel familiar. Like if I had a sister, maybe this is what it’d feel like.”

Her hands stilled.

The words hit harder than they had any right to. A warmth bloomed in her chest—warm, aching, unwelcome. Because MC didn’t remember. Not the halls, the cries, the nights they huddled together. Not the way they held each other through pain that left no marks visible. No traces of the times they spent together as kids. How she had held MC close, soothing her when the noise became too much. Or how MC, even in her own terror, had once clumsily tried to clean her bleeding, battered body up with her own clothes, just so she could feel a little less dirty. And yet… something still lingered. Thin and gossamer as a memory. As if the soul remembered where the mind could not.

“You’re an only child?” she asked quietly, already knowing the answer.

MC leaned back slightly. “Well… I guess I have something like an older brother? But sometimes he acts more immature than me, so I don’t really like calling him that.”

The grin that followed was playful. Easy. Familiar. 

It all slammed back into her like a punch. The surreal, delicate haze shattered by one name—unspoken but loud. 

Caleb.

She had been so preoccupied with MC’s injury—her voice, her presence, the surreal reality of her in the same room—that she didn’t realize it sooner. MC was here. The DAA wasn’t just some casual stop. This wasn’t part of the main storyline. She would’ve remembered if it was. MC visiting Caleb during his fighter pilot days… was it an anecdote she’d missed? A hidden memory? A secret times she never unlocked?

Her heart started racing again.

Did this mean, in this version of the world, MC was on Caleb’s route? Or is this just one of the many things that happened behind the scenes that the game didn’t show? It’s real life now after all. Plus—

It shouldn’t matter.

She told herself that over and over. She had promised herself from the beginning that she just wanted to be a friend—to both of them. That she wouldn't get between what the two of them have.

MC didn’t remember the past. Hell, she doesn’t even remember all the versions of her that shared love and pasts with the other love interests, didn’t even get a spark of recognition when she first met Xavier, Rafayel, or Sylus for the first time in this life. And yet somehow, MC had still felt the bond between them. That had to mean something, right?

But somewhere along the way, things had twisted into something messier, quieter, harder to name. 

Caleb, who should have remembered. Who had looked at her like a stranger. Treated her like a threat. Who had questioned everything about her, while MC, with nothing but instinct, had trusted her. 

She knew it wasn’t fair to be angry. But even if she knew it wasn’t his fault—even if she understood the trauma, the paranoia, the impossibility of trust after what they had endured—it didn’t soften the bitterness lodged beneath her ribs. That ugly shard of resentment. Because she remembered. She had kept remembering.

The bitterness lodged in her chest was too deep that the Caleb that’s begging for forgiveness didn’t feel sincere at all. She couldn’t believe him. Couldn’t make herself believe that this version, this changed, softer version was real. She had watched him tear her down with suspicion and silence. And now? Now, the only thing she felt with certainty was the growing need to step back. 

She swallowed hard and reached for the diagnostic scanner.

MC winced slightly at the cool metal brushing her ribs. “Sorry,” MC said.

“Breathe in,” she replied, steady. “And don’t apologize.”

MC smiled again. Soft, warm. “You’re really gentle, even when you’re strict.”

MC’s fingers tapped against the side of the cot as she worked. 

“You feel like someone I can trust,” MC said suddenly. Her voice was quiet, but sincere. “It’s weird. I don’t even know your name yet.”

She bit the inside of her cheek, trying to swallow the rush of emotion building under her ribs. “Maybe we knew each other in another life.”

MC smiled. “Yeah. Maybe.”

When the scan finished, she adjusted the bandages gently as she gave aftercare instructions.

“You’re all set,” she said. “You need to rest your arm and avoid heavy lifting for a few days.”

“Thanks again. I need to get better soon. I promised I’d visit my grandma before the end of the week.” MC said, laughing lightly although a little frustration managed to make its way through. 

And something in that sentence sank cold into her bones.

The end of the week.

The visit to their grandmother.

The explosion —

The door slid open with urgency, and Caleb’s presence immediately filled the room. His rushed footsteps were uneven, as though he had barely caught his breath after dashing from wherever he'd been.

He stood on the threshold as if he’d run through a storm just to reach them. The scent of soap hit her first, warm and clean, undercut by something distinctly him—sharp, masculine, almost metallic. He was disheveled, his hair damp, strands clinging to his forehead, droplets of water trailing the line of his jaw. His skin glistened beneath the too-thin cotton of a white wifebeater, the fabric clinging shamelessly to his chest and stomach, already nearly transparent in patches where the water hadn’t yet dried. His broad shoulders glinted under the fluorescents, droplets of water still slipping down his arms, racing along his veins, vanishing into the low waistband of his dark sweatpants. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, casual and intimate in a way that felt unfair.

He was panting, lips parted, his chest rising and falling like he’d raced here without stopping. And maybe he had.

“Are you—” His gaze landed on MC, and he started to speak—but then he saw her .

His mouth stayed open like the rest of the sentence had dissolved on his tongue. His eyes found hers with an intensity that felt almost physical—like he could pin her to the wall with nothing but a look. She could see how his chest heaved, how his fists flexed slightly at his sides, and she wondered—was it relief? Was it something else entirely? More like the tension had been rerouted somewhere deeper, quieter. Into his eyes. Into the way they softened the moment they found hers.

Her lungs stilled. Her hands froze where they hovered over the gauze on MC’s bandaged arm. Just a cut—nothing major, nothing that needed a full-blown emergency. But he didn’t know that yet.

Still, he didn’t speak. Didn’t rush forward. Didn’t go to MC, or demand answers, or even glance at the wound. He stood there in the doorway, panting slightly, lips parted—and staring at her

She didn’t mean to hold her breath. But she did.

It wasn’t the first time he’d looked at her. Not really. But something about this felt bare. Unguarded. Like he’d forgotten what he came in for the second he saw her face. Like he’d wanted to say something to someone else, but somehow couldn’t remember why.

His brows furrowed—barely, gently—like a breath caught between hesitation and something deeper. Not confusion. Something quieter. Like the ache of recognition after a long absence. Like she was a wound he hadn’t stopped bleeding for. His eyes—god, his eyes —looked at her like he was begging her to see him . Like if she said one soft word, gave him one small permission, he’d fall apart right there. Unravel at her feet.

His gaze swept over her slowly, unhurried but deliberate. Not as though he were searching for something—but like he was grounding himself. Like her presence was the only thing in the room tethering him to this moment.

He stopped at her face. Her eyes. Her mouth. His gaze lingered—not with hunger, but with something heavier. A softness that carried weight. Subtle, but palpable. Like a dam behind his irises, holding back something he wouldn’t name. Couldn’t afford to. 

There was no rush in him, but there was gravity, importance. A stillness that hummed with tension. Like every part of him ached to move closer—to close the space between them, to breathe her in, to say something that would crack everything open—but he held back.

She swallowed hard. Tried to look away. She couldn’t.

Because in that moment, Caleb looked like a man who didn’t know he’d been looking for something until he found it. And now he couldn’t look away.

A flush crept up her neck before she could stop it. Her heart knocked wildly against her ribs, ridiculous and traitorous. No. Not this. Not now. She wasn’t going to be the idiot who melted over a damp man with big arms and pretty eyes. She wasn’t going to be the girl who got distracted by the way his tank top clung to his body like second skin, by the way he was standing there like he was built to ruin every ounce of sense in her body.

But God. The way he looked at her—like she was light after a storm, or maybe the storm itself. Like he'd come running for someone else and ended up lost in her.

She hated how warm she felt under that gaze.

MC’s voice finally broke the spell, light with amusement. “I’m fine, you know. It’s just a cut.”

Caleb didn’t look away. Not immediately. His eyes lingered on her for one more breath, then two, before he blinked again and finally turned his head to MC.

“Oh,” he said, voice quiet and rough. “Right. Yeah. I just… heard you got injured.”

“A minor one,” MC sheepishly grinned, sounding amused but trying to hold it back at the same time. “I was lucky. Just needed a few stitches.”

He nodded, but his body still felt distant, like only half of him had followed his eyes when they moved. He ran a hand back through his wet hair—more out of habit than anything—and her gaze, traitorous thing that it was, followed the motion.

The slow flex of muscle beneath soaked cotton. The low dip of those sweatpants on his hips. The way his ribs expanded with each deep breath.

God.

She needed to get out of this room.

From the corner of her eye, she saw MC watching them. That amused glint again. As if she was connecting dots that hadn’t even been drawn yet, she’s not sure.

It was too much.

MC's unexpected arrival here in the DAA.

The reminder of the impending explosion still pulsing in her memory, a grim warning that the real chaos hadn't even begun. She knows it will happen, she doesn’t want it to. 

And Caleb.

Caleb being Caleb.

Looking at her like that. Like she'd stolen his breath. Like she'd written his name on her skin without knowing.

It was all too much.

She needed the day to end. Needed the quiet that came after the noise. The silence where she could think—organize her thoughts, sort through the mess of her heart, her fears, her rapidly fraying boundaries. 

//

MC flipped to the dessert page, eyes scanning with practiced ease. “Wow,” she murmured, “I’ve tried their chocolate cake at the Linkon branch before, but I’ve heard the ones in Skyhaven are on a different level.”

She gave a small nod, managing a polite smile as she pointed at a few items on the menu. "Their earl grey chiffon is a local favorite. And if you like fruit, the mango shortcake's worth a try. Personally, I like the strawberry one best." Her voice was steady, but her hand trembled just slightly, resting too quickly in her lap once she'd said her part.

The café was one of the most popular in Skyhaven, known not just for its pastries and coffee but for its quiet magic—how it wrapped itself around you like a soft blanket. The walls were painted in muted earth tones, lined with bookshelves that sagged under the weight of secondhand novels and ceramic mugs. Mismatched chairs circled every wooden table—each one slightly scuffed, as if to prove it had lived through countless late-night study sessions and long, meandering conversations. Warm lighting spilled from vintage lamps tucked into corners, and hand-written signs in looping cursive advertised today’s specials: lavender honey lattes, rosemary shortbread, and a chocolate cake that had earned a reputation across the city.

It was perfectly cozy, yes. If it weren’t for this situation.

How did she even end up here? 

She liked to think she had a backbone when it came to Caleb—but she clearly hadn’t accounted for her. How when she was leaving the medical wing, done for the day, she had been ambushed. MC had looked up at her after her shift with eyes wide and pleading, like a baby deer seeing its first sunrise. “Only if you’re not too tired,” MC had said sweetly, as if her existence wasn’t already emotionally exhausting enough.

And she knew she shouldn’t. She knew Caleb would be there. She knew it would be painfully awkward.

But did she say no?

Of course not.

She hadn’t looked at Caleb once.

Across from her, Caleb did nothing to hide how often he looked at her . His posture was relaxed in theory, but his eyes betrayed him—wide, quiet, wounded. He sat beside MC, but his focus was elsewhere—on her, on anything but the conversation at hand. When her hand brushed the edge of the table, his own twitched slightly, as if he’d almost reached for it before remembering he didn’t have the right to do that in the first place. 

MC didn’t seem to notice the tension—or maybe she did, and misunderstood it entirely. Gaze flicking between them with a curious glint, and leaning into Caleb a little, nudging his arm with an elbow as if teasing. "Are you really not getting anything? Come on, even I want to try three things here."

Caleb blinked, tearing his eyes away, managing a faint smile at MC. "I... yeah, maybe I’ll get something."

Beside her, Gideon seemed to pick up on the shift in the air. Maybe not the full picture, but enough to know things weren’t smooth. He cleared his throat lightly and turned to her with an easy smile.

"I heard the owner’s the one who personally makes the cakes in this branch," he offered, tapping the bottom of the menu with one finger. "It’s why people line up even before the doors open. That, and it’s supposedly student friendly too. Really good for studying."

She looked at him, grateful for the break in atmosphere, and nodded again. "That explains why the cakes are so good."

Gideon smiled. "Exactly. I wish I knew how to make food like this."

But even as she tried to focus on the menu, her eyes flicked once— just a quick glance—barely a second—but it was enough to catch the quiet desolation in his posture. He was sitting there, perfectly still, looking as if he might disappear into the wooden chair. Caleb wasn’t smiling. He looked like a kicked puppy pretending he hadn’t been kicked.

She looked away quickly.

This was a mistake.

Across the table, she noticed MC leaning in a little closer to Caleb, eyes flicking between the two of them with a barely contained grin. There was something playful in her expression—teasing, almost conspiratorial. MC raised an eyebrow at Caleb and, for a split second, looked like she was encouraging him or something.

Caleb blinked, clearly confused, his brows knitting slightly as he turned toward MC in a silent question, clearly not understanding what MC was getting at.

“Caleb’s amazing at cooking!” MC said suddenly, voice bright and full of purpose. “He’s the best at making braised pork belly. Seriously, it’s his specialty.”

Next to her, Caleb stiffened slightly. His posture straightened, like he’d been caught off guard. “Seriously, what are you trying to do?” he muttered, voice low and flustered, his hand coming up to rub the back of his neck.

MC just kept going, undeterred. “And he’s super handy, too. You should’ve seen him with my microwave last winter. Or that time he fixed my entire radiator in one afternoon. He’s great with his hands—” she broke off, laughing at her own words, “—in a totally non-weird way.”

Caleb turned a shade redder, ears tinged with pink now as he slouched a little in his seat, clearly dying inside.

Gideon chuckled, glancing toward Caleb with a knowing look. “I mean, she’s not wrong. The guy’s basically the squad’s unofficial mechanic-slash-chef. I’ve been trying to bribe him for recipes for months.”

Caleb let out a quiet groan and ducked his head slightly. “You’re all insane.”

She glanced at him—at the way he tried to disappear into his hoodie, flustered and caught in the open, more vulnerable than he ever let himself be.

And for a moment, something soft bloomed in her chest. Not just longing. Also... familiarity. She’d seen this version of him before, too. In the quiet corners of the game’s story, in the way he opened up around MC and only MC. She used to wonder if there was a path where he could’ve been like that with her.

But that wasn’t her role, and that wasn’t her Caleb.

Her voice was light when she finally spoke. “Wow, you two must be really close.”

MC beamed, nudging Caleb’s arm like they were back in some shared memory only the two of them could see. “Of course! He’s always had my back.”

She didn’t look up again. Just kept her eyes on the menu, even as the words pressed gently at the edge of her thoughts.

He’d always had hers, too.

Just not in this life.

//

One second, Caleb was halfway through a conversation with Gideon about the security scan anomalies outside the labs, and the next—

She was there.

He didn’t even register the end of his own sentence. Just stopped talking. Tried not to stop breathing.

She stood beside MC, half-shadowed under the overhead lights, soft in her usual way and yet distant in the ways that mattered. His throat closed up. It always did around her now.

Gideon noticed—of course he did—but didn’t say anything. His tone didn’t even hitch as he turned to greet her.

“Oh, hey. You’re the nurse everyone’s always talking about,” Gideon said, casually cheerful. “Glad you finally came down to visit.”

She smiled. Just enough. “Hey. Yeah, thought I’d tag along for a bit.”

Her voice was lighter than usual—not airy, but smoother. There wasn’t the tension he had gotten used to when she spoke to him . None of the sharp lines or clipped words. Caleb felt that difference like a bruise. He barely registers MC inviting them both out to eat, too focused on the woman in front of him.

He wanted to reach out, to say something. Anything. Another apology, maybe. Something gentler. Something that might make things right again.

But he didn’t. Not because Gideon and MC were right there. Because he knew she was tired of him. And he didn’t know how to fix it.

Later, at the café, Caleb stared down at the untouched cup in front of him. Some seasonal special MC had insisted he try. He wasn’t even sure what it was. Too sweet, probably. Not that it mattered—he hadn’t tasted anything properly since they walked in.

It wasn’t the café’s fault.

She sat across from him. Not alone—Gideon had taken the seat beside her—but still within reach. Her gaze had been mostly on the menu, occasionally flicking up to MC or Gideon as they joked about the crowd, the lighting, the cake selection.

Never to him.

And yet—he drank up every word she said. When her voice wasn’t edged with frustration. When it wasn’t aimed at him like a shield. When she talked about cakes—specifically about liking the ones with cream cheese frosting or anything with strawberries in it—and the way her eyes crinkled just slightly at the corners, something small and warm stirred in his chest.

That joy. That softness. That version of her.

He wanted it back.

He wanted her back.

Not in the way people spoke of getting things “back” as if they were ever owed them to begin with. Just—he wanted to go back and do it all over. Rewrite everything from the beginning. Take the long way if he had to. Be gentler. Quicker to listen. Quicker to understand. He would trade every win, every pat on the back from the Association, every moment of praise, if it meant he could look at her now and not feel like a stranger.

She laughed—quietly, at something Gideon said—and it wasn’t for him, but he felt it anyway. His hands curled on his lap beneath the table. Her smile was small, brief, barely there. It was the kind of smile he used to know.  It was like water after a drought.

And he would’ve done anything to earn it again.

And then MC leaned forward.

Caleb barely had time to brace himself.

MC’s expression twisted into something playful, her brows raising just enough for him to notice. She looked at him, then back at the girl seated across from him, and her mind might as well have been on speakerphone but he doesn’t get what she’s trying to get across. 

“Caleb’s amazing at cooking!” MC said suddenly, voice bright and full of purpose. “He’s the best at making braised pork belly. Seriously, it’s his specialty.”

His entire body tensed. His ears went hot. “Seriously,” he hissed under his breath, voice low. “What are you trying to do?”

But MC was already steamrolling ahead, her voice bright and unbothered. Caleb went red. He could feel it creeping up his neck. Gideon chuckled, not missing a beat and joined in on praising him.

He resisted the urge to groan into his menu.

But when he glanced across the table, she was just smiling politely. Not flustered. Not flattered. Just… listening.

And something in him folded.

As Caleb watched her, it was like she wasn’t really there—not in the way he wished she would be. She absorbed the conversation like it was a script, nodding along without truly connecting, and it made something twist painfully inside him. He wondered if things could have been different. If he’d been more careful. More understanding. If he hadn’t kept her at arm’s length, maybe he could’ve shown her these things himself—made her experience them firsthand. He would’ve cooked for her, fixed things when they broke, helped her in ways that no one else could. 

If only he had the chance now.

//

//

//

Meanwhile,

MC could practically feel the tension crackling in the air between Caleb and the girl across from him. It wasn’t the kind of tension that made you squirm—no, it was the kind of quiet, unspoken energy that left things hanging in the balance, like a question that hadn’t been answered yet. She could tell.. Caleb was trying—really trying—not to let on, but his body was giving him away. The slight clench of his jaw. The way his hands fidgeted in his lap, like he wasn’t sure whether to reach out or pull away.

She knew Caleb. And she feels like she knows this girl. The way her gaze flicked to Caleb but quickly darted away, how she clutched her menu a little too tightly like she was hiding something. She was trying to pretend it wasn’t there—the connection between them—but it was obvious to anyone who was paying attention.

And that was when it clicked. The gears in her mind started turning, and a mischievous grin spread across her face. This was the moment. It wasn’t going to be easy. This was the first time Caleb ever expressed interest in someone and MC wasn’t about to leave him hanging.

Subtly, she leaned in just a little closer to Caleb, her eyes flicking between him and the girl, making sure she was doing this right. She could practically hear the thoughts bouncing around in Caleb’s head, and a little chuckle bubbled up from inside her. He was so obvious sometimes.

With a quick glance, she raised an eyebrow, a silent signal. The look she gave him could only be interpreted one way: I got this, bro. Go for it. Don’t hold back. Her mind yells, giving him a mental thumbs-up along with it. 

She watched Caleb shift in his seat, unsure whether to laugh or cringe at his awkwardness. But the thing was, Caleb didn’t need to worry about getting everything perfect. He just needed to show up, to be himself.

And as for the girl? Well, she’d be his wingwoman for the night. MC wasn’t just going to sit back and let the two of them fumble through this unspoken dance. No, she was going to give them a little nudge. Maybe a push .

//

//

//

Chapter Text

They stepped out first.

The street outside the café was mellow in the late afternoon light, gold filtering through the many trees that lined the sidewalk. A gentle breeze carried the scent of coffee and spring dust, and for a moment, it felt like the kind of quiet that could hold a secret. The kind that came after a storm—or maybe just before one.

MC walked beside her, arms tucked loosely around herself, her expression softer now that they were away from the others. The café door swung closed behind them, a soft chime marking their exit. Caleb and Gideon had stayed back to settle the bill. Probably arguing over who gets to cover the whole bill like they always did.

“Hey,” MC said after a pause. “That wasn’t too weird, was it?”

She glanced sideways. “The café? Or the part where you tried to pitch Caleb like a car salesman?”

MC burst out laughing, her nose scrunching up in the way that made her look even younger than she was. “Okay, I deserved that. But I was being subtle!”

“You said, ‘he’s great with his hands.’” She deadpanned, raising an eyebrow. The exchange just felt so natural that she’s responding before even thinking.

MC winced dramatically, burying her face in her hands. “I panicked! I was trying to help!”

“I don’t know what you mean by that.”

MC looked at her, eyes wide with hope. “I mean—you saw him, didn’t you? He couldn’t stop looking at you.”

She didn’t answer. Just smiled tightly and kept walking.

They strolled down the sidewalk, shoes tapping against the brick path in uneven rhythm. MC fidgeted with the hem of her sleeve, then suddenly spoke again.

“I’m glad,” MC said, softer now. “That we met, I mean. I hope we can get to know each other more. Really be friends.”

She opened her mouth to deflect—to joke, maybe, to keep it casual—but found herself hesitating. Then, quietly: “Me too.”

Something about MC made it hard to keep the walls up, she feels like she doesn’t really have to. Maybe it was how earnest she was. Maybe it was how tired they both were beneath the polish. Either way, it felt safe to let some things slip through the cracks.

“Where are you stationed right now?” she asked.

MC made a face. “Zone Three. They’ve got me bouncing between patrols and field assessments. I swear, every day there’s more wanderers. It’s like they’re multiplying.”

She nodded grimly. “We’ve been getting more cases too. Injuries, exposure—DAA’s been overwhelmed. I’m stitching up wanderer wounds in the morning and helping with amputations by evening.”

MC’s brows knit in concern. “That’s brutal.”

“You never really get used to it,” she said, but her voice was quieter. “You have to, though. Otherwise it eats you alive.”

MC glanced at her then, really looked at her. “That’s... a lot.”

“It is,” she admitted. “But so is being a rookie hunter with that much pressure on your shoulders.”

“Touché.” MC huffed a small laugh. “Sometimes I wake up and wonder if I’m going to make it through the day. But then... there are people. Like you. Reminding me it’s not all terrible.”

A silence settled again, soft and companionable.

They reached the street corner, footsteps slow now, unhurried. There was a moment—just a blink—where it felt like things might be okay. Like maybe they really had known each other in another life. Maybe in that life, they were safe.

She turned to say something. Maybe something funny. Maybe something kind.

But the words never left her mouth.

Because the air changed.

No warning. No sound.

Just a sudden, unnatural stillness. Like the earth had taken a breath and forgotten to let it go.

Then—impact.

A pulse of raw, chaotic energy ruptured the ground a block ahead of them. The street split open like paper, concrete curling up in jagged claws. Debris flung itself into the air—metal, glass, stone—moving too fast, too violently. Screams shattered the peace as people scrambled for cover.

A second explosion cracked the air sideways—too close. Too fast.

She barely had time to react.

Her body moved on instinct, pushing MC down behind a car as a blast of heat tore through the crosswalk where they’d just stood. Shrapnel whistled past her ears, something sharp grazing her shoulder. Pain bloomed, but she bit it down.

MC was yelling something—her name maybe, she didn’t know.

Her ears rang.

The next moment, everything was too bright.

A flash of silver light.

A pull in the air.

A crackle of gravity folding on itself.

She turned—eyes scanning, chest heaving—and saw them.

Caleb and Gideon burst out from the café behind them, their footsteps pounding the pavement as the world split open.

She barely registered the shriek of Skyhaven’s alarm, the seamless sweep of its emergency drones evacuating civilians, the way the city always moved like it was prepared for war.

It all happened so fast.

Too fast.

In one heartbeat—Caleb’s Evol erupted.

The air bent around him. Gravity fractured, surged outward in a violent wave that tossed chairs and tables into shields for panicked strangers. People ducked. Screamed.

But her eyes were locked on him.

And his were already on her.

Across the chaos, he saw her.

Time stuttered.

His face was wide open—fear, shock, something raw and breaking just beneath the surface. His body tensed.

And then—he moved.

Straight toward her.

One step. Two.

His hand lifted slightly, just enough for her to feel it—the pull of his Evol brushing against her skin. Her breath hitched.

He was coming for her.

He was.

But then—

MC screamed.

A sharp, piercing cry that cut through the air like lightning.

Caleb's head snapped to the side.

And everything—everything—changed.

In that sliver of a second, he pivoted.

Turned away.

His arm wrapped around MC, pulling her into him just as another surge of energy rained down from above. Debris shattered around them.

His Evol exploded out again—bigger this time, all-encompassing—a shield forged from desperation and instinct.

And she—

She wasn’t inside it.

She was just outside.

Close enough to see the dome shimmer to life, close enough to almost reach it.

Close enough that her fingertips brushed nothing but air.

She stared.

At him.

At them.

Of course.

Of course.

Of course.

She wasn’t the one he’d sworn to protect. Not the girl who carried his memories. Not the one he’d promised to never lose again.

The blast hit.

All in just seconds.

Her body flew before her mind caught up. Something sharp punched through her side, and heat bloomed—fire laced with ice, pain so absolute it swallowed her whole. Her breath vanished. Her knees gave out.

The pavement rushed up to meet her.

She didn’t scream—she couldn’t. Blood bubbled up into her mouth, thick and coppery. Her lungs spasmed. Her vision went red, then dark at the edges.

It hurt.

It hurt in a way she’d never known. Like her entire body had been shattered from the inside out.

Her skin screamed. Her bones—she could feel them—splintering, grinding against each other like broken glass. Her nerves were molten wire, sparking, snapping, thrumming with blinding agony. Her lungs burned with fire, the taste of iron thick in her mouth.

She convulsed. Gasped. Choked on blood. Each breath was a war. Each second a battle. Her vision spun, blotched red and black, the world warping around the edges. It would’ve been so easy to let go. To just sink. Let the pain drown her.

But—

No.

She couldn’t.

Somewhere under the wreckage of agony, she reached for it. For the thing buried deep in her blood and bone. Her Evol. 

“Come on,” she choked aloud, or maybe just in her head. She’s not sure anymore because she just hears ringing. “Come on—please—”

It hurt. It hurt to even think, let alone concentrate. Her hands trembled, slick with blood and dust, her fingers curled and spasming against the pavement.

But she gritted her teeth, .

Focus.

Breathe.

Survive.

She dragged in a breath that tasted like smoke and ash and fear. The world blurred, but inside—something lit up.

A pulse.

A flicker.

There.

The first spark of healing ignited low in her chest, so faint it nearly slipped away. She grabbed it with the last threads of her strength, yanked it to the surface. A golden warmth began to ripple outward, slow and sluggish against the tide of pain. Her cells knit. Torn flesh slowly pulled together. Her breathing hitched, then steadied—barely.

It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t enough at all. Not yet.

But it was something.

The pain was still there, roaring like a wildfire. But her body—her body was trying. Fighting. Healing.

She would save herself.

And somewhere in that split, broken moment—

She could almost feel him again. His Evol reaching, desperate. But it was too late. Or maybe it was just her brain trying to soothe her. Trying to lie to herself that he at least tried to reach her. 

Far away, she thought she heard her name. Maybe Caleb. Maybe not. It didn’t matter.

The last thing she saw before the blackness swallowed her whole—

Was the soft glow of his gravity shield still holding, still shimmering—Not around her.

And then—

Nothing.

//

He couldn't hear anything.

Not the ringing sirens, not Gideon shouting into his comms, not the chaos unraveling in every direction.

Just his heartbeat.

Loud. Erratic. Like it was trying to punch its way out of his chest.

His Evol was still engaged, the barrier still holding steady around MC—unscathed, breathing, staring up at him with wide, shaken eyes.

Alive.

But—

His head whipped around.

Where is she?

His heart stuttered. His barrier faltered for half a second before he forced it back up.

And then he saw her.

A blur of blood and ruin, barely visible through the smoke and dust. Her body lay half-crumpled beneath a fallen beam, one arm stretched out toward them, fingers twitching.

No. No. No—

He ran.

He ran like the ground might swallow him if he didn’t move fast enough, like he could somehow outrun the choice he’d just made. The decision that now weighed like a chain around his neck.

He dropped to his knees beside her, hands hovering but not daring to touch.

“Hey—hey, look at me,” his voice cracked.

She didn’t respond.

Blood slicked the ground beneath her, pooling like a second skin. Her face was pale—too pale—her eyes shut tight like she was still fighting something he couldn’t see.

“Don’t—don’t do this,” he breathed, Evol crackling uselessly around his palms. “I didn’t mean to—”

But he had.

He had chosen.

Even if it tore him apart. Even if every part of him screamed that he should’ve gone to her.

He didn’t.

Because he couldn’t lose MC. He couldn’t break that promise. And it cost her. God, it cost her.

He couldn’t stop shaking.

Even now when he takes her body in his arms, even with the blood slicked across his palms and the faint thrum of her Evol pulsing weakly under his skin—he couldn’t stop.

Because he’d known.

In that instant, when instinct and reason collided—he knew what he was doing.

And still, he turned.

She’d survive.

That’s what he told himself.

That was his damn justification.

Because her Evol would kick in—because she could heal—because she always healed.

But MC wouldn’t.

And so he chose.

He chose the girl he’d sworn to protect.

He chose the past.

He chose the promise.

And he left her.

And now—

God, now he was no different from Ever.

He’d done the same thing—deemed her pain bearable because her body could stitch itself back together anyway. Measured her worth in durability. Watched her break because he decided she could take it.

He felt sick.

His breath caught as he looked down at her in his arms. Torn. Bloodied. Her face ghost-pale, her pulse thready. She was healing—he could feel it—but it wasn’t clean or soft or miraculous like he always imagined regeneration to be.

It was violent.

Bone ground against bone as her limbs began to realign, ribs pushing back into place with brutal, wet clicks. Torn muscle spasmed, crawling back across wounds like it was remembering how to hold her together. Parts of her warped, twisting, contorting—reforming in bursts of grotesque motion as missing pieces grew back inch by inch.

It wasn’t a gift. It was a horror.

And too many people were watching.

Too many civilians. Too many DAA agents. Too many strangers with eyes too curious and mouths too loose.

“No,” Caleb hissed, shrugging off his jacket in one smooth, frantic motion. He draped it over her, shielding what he could, hands trembling as he gathered her close. “No one sees her like this.”

Not like this.

Not broken.

Not vulnerable.

He scooped her into his arms, gentle but urgent.

That was when Gideon and MC reached them, breathless and pale.

MC’s face crumpled. “Oh my God. Is she—?”

“No,” Caleb snapped. “She’s alive. Barely.”

Gideon swore under his breath. “Jesus, Caleb—what the hell happened—?”

“There’s no time,” Caleb cut him off, eyes flicking to the bystanders, to the growing crowd, to the agents closing in. “We can’t stay here. We need to go—now. Somewhere private. Somewhere safe.”

“But—” MC started, voice tight with fear.

“She can’t be seen like this,” Caleb said again, harsher now. “Please. Just trust me.”

He didn’t wait for agreement. His Evol flared beneath his skin, wrapping around them like armor. As if compensating. The only thing steady in his world right now was the weight of her in his arms—and the gut-deep loathing burning through him.

Because no matter how fast they moved, no matter how far they ran—he’d always know.

He’d looked her in the eye.

And he’d left her to die.

//

The first thing she felt was pain.

Not sharp—not immediate—but dull and deep, like it had seeped into her bones. Her body throbbed beneath her skin, every breath aching in ways that didn’t make sense. Like her lungs had been shredded and stitched back together with glass thread. Like her ribs still remembered being broken.

The second thing she felt was warmth.

A hand. Rough. Large. Holding hers like it was the only thing anchoring him to the world.

She blinked.

The light overhead was soft, almost too soft. Walls a pale cream. No hum of monitors, no bustling halls, no sterile sting in the air. It wasn’t the DAA’s medical bay. It wasn’t anywhere she recognized.

It was quiet. Too quiet.

And then—

“Hey,” came a voice. Cracked. Barely there.

She turned her head.

Caleb.

Slumped in a chair pulled up to the side of her bed, elbows braced on his knees. His hair was a mess—wild from running his hands through it too many times. His eyes were red. Hollow. Haunted. His knuckles white around her fingers.

He looked like a man at the edge of something. Like he hadn’t slept. Like he hadn’t breathed since she fell.

And when their eyes met—

Something inside him broke.

He leaned forward, forehead pressing against their joined hands, his shoulders shaking once. Just once. As if he’d finally let himself exhale.

“You’re awake,” he said hoarsely. “Thank God. Fuck. Thank God.”

She didn’t know what to say.

Her throat was dry, voice a whisper. “Where…?”

Caleb didn’t look away from her hand in his. “Somewhere safe,” he said softly. “It’s… a long story. But you’re safe now. I swear, you’ll be okay.”

She didn’t answer.

Not right away.

She was too tired. Too tired to argue. Too tired to let herself feel the things swelling behind her ribcage.

Too tired to pull her hand away.

So she let him hold it.

Only because she didn’t have the strength to do anything else.

He looked like hell. Worse than hell. Shadows clung under his eyes, his face pale and drawn. Like he hadn’t stopped replaying it in his head. The moment he looked at her. The moment he chose.

Her throat burned.

She closed her eyes for a second, swallowing down whatever it was clawing up her chest.

“I want to be alone,” she whispered.

His breath hitched.

But he didn’t protest. Didn’t beg.

“I don’t deserve forgiveness,” he said instead, voice breaking. “But I’m here. And I’ll stay here—for as long as you want me. Even if you never say a word to me again. Even if you hate me. I’m here.”

She opened her eyes.

Looked at him.

Long and hard.

And she wondered, absently, bitterly, if her heart just hadn’t finished regenerating yet.

Because all she felt was numbness. Cold. Hollow in places she didn’t know could be hollow.

She turned her head, away from his side, away from where her hand is still clutched between his. She closes her eyes. 

“Do as you please.” She murmured. 

A pause. A long, aching silence.

Then she felt it—barely there, just the brush of movement as Caleb shifted beside her. He didn’t let go of her hand. Didn’t loosen his grip.

Instead, with a sound so soft it might’ve been a breath or a prayer, he pressed her hand against his forehead, fingers trembling just slightly. Like he was anchoring himself. Like this small, broken connection was the only thing keeping him here.

He didn’t say anything.

Didn’t ask for forgiveness again.

Didn’t dare.

He just stayed—forehead to her hand, hunched over in the chair by her bed like the weight of her silence was heavier than any injury he could've taken himself.

Minutes passed. Or maybe hours. Time didn’t move the way it should anymore.

But his grip never faltered.

And he never let go.

//

The office lights were dim, the walls thick with silence and calculation. The Director stood at the center of it, sleeves rolled up, blazer draped on the back of a chair. The scent of burnt ozone still clung faintly to his coat from the blast site earlier.

He hadn’t trusted anyone else to clean up that mess.

The holographic projections hovered over his desk—four profiles arranged in a neat vertical row.

Caleb. Gideon. Her. MC.

His eyes lingered on the nurse. The girl with the nursing badge and the painfully ordinary record. It almost offended his sensibilities—how clean her file was. No commendations. No reprimands. Just…average. Steady. Quiet.

But the blood left behind had painted a different story. A story of someone torn open, dismembered by the blast—and then... nothing. No body. No trace. Not even ash.

He’d been the one to authorize the blackout, to wipe all feeds, to scrub the streets clean. He had ordered the blood neutralization units in. He had made sure there were no leaks to the press. One civilian harmed in a Skyhaven explosion incident was bad enough. One with no corpse was a powder keg waiting to blow.

So he gave her a room. 

Private. Hidden. Out of the system but still within the Deepspace Aviation Administration. He had stopped them from fleeing the scene on theìr own and extended a hand. He made sure she and Caleb were well taken care of. Food. Surveillance-free quarters. Minimal personnel. He even intercepted the medical scans and routed them to a secure line.

Because he didn’t believe in coincidences.

They were the best. He’d known it since they were recruits. Caleb’s control over gravity and battlefield acuity, her precision and expertise in health care. Together, they made up some of DAA’s finest.

And they were hiding something from him.

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose, then turned back to the console. With a few quick taps, the projections minimized, save for one.

Caleb’s profile expanded.

A command typed itself in with slow, deliberate clicks.

“Bring Officer Caleb to my office. Now.”

His voice was calm, but final.

Because before they could move forward, before another incident catches him off-guard, he needed to know exactly what the hell had happened out there.

Chapter Text

Caleb thought he must be dreaming.

The world had become too beautiful, too fragile for reality—the air thick with the scent of blooming flowers, the warmth of early spring draped over his shoulders like a silk ribbon. In the gentle sway of the boat, under a sky pale with sunlight, she smiled at him—and he, helpless against the tide of it, could only stand there and marvel.

She was a vision spun from the river's mist and the whisper of petals, her laughter stitched into the very breeze. Around them, flowers bowed their heads as if gazing at them in secret, and the river caught their reflections like a memory it longed to keep. 

He looked down at the lotus cradled between his fingers, tracing its delicate petals as though they held some answer, some reason for the sudden fullness in his chest. But it wasn't the flower that mattered—it was her.

When she reached out to him, her hand adorned with glinting bracelets that winked like tiny stars, Caleb forgot how to breathe. Time softened, stretched, and in that tender space between heartbeats, her fingers found his.

A smile, unguarded and achingly real, bloomed on his lips. He laced his fingers through hers, careful, gentle, slow. As if any touch heavier would break the moment. 

"You are the greatest miracle that fate has given me," he whispered, each word a vow.

The world around them blurred—the river, the sky, the endless drift of flowers—until only she remained, tethering him to a reality far sweeter than any dream he could have dared to imagine.

They lay down side by side on the boat, the wooden floor swaying gently beneath them, flowers drifting lazily past. The river cradled them in its slow, endless embrace, the sky above them soft and open, the scent of water and blossoms clinging to the air. She turned to him, her hair spilling across the deck, her eyes shining with a light he wanted to chase forever.

For a long, trembling moment, they simply looked at each other—no walls, no words, just the raw, overwhelming gravity of being known. And then, slow as the river’s current, he shifted onto his side, propping himself over her, the warmth of his hand finding her cheek. Her breath hitched. Her fingers curled into his shirt. He leaned in, heart hammering against his ribs, brushing his forehead against hers in a silent, desperate prayer. 

When their lips met, it was weightless—featherlight, reverent—as though the entire universe had gone still to witness it. The kiss deepened, languid and unhurried, like a secret shared between souls. The river hummed around them, the world spun into gold, and Caleb kissed her like she was the only thing that had ever truly mattered.

And as the boat carried them forward into the soft, trembling light of spring, Caleb knew: if this was a dream, he would never ask to wake.

But he did. 

Reality was cruel in its clarity.

The cold, fluorescent hallway buzzed faintly overhead, pulling him back into the sharp, sterile weight of reality. Caleb blinked against the sting in his eyes, pressing the heel of his palm into them as if he could hold on to the dream for just a second longer. But it slipped through his fingers like river water. The chill of the corridor was a sharp contrast to the sun-warmed river in his mind; the scent of pressed linen and fresh paint burned in his nose, banishing the phantom fragrance of flowers.

The door before him stayed closed. A thin barrier of wood and silence—and her absence—kept him out.

Caleb clenched his fists, forehead brushing briefly against the wall beside the door. He remembered how she had smiled in the dream, how her fingers had twined so easily with his, how her kiss had tasted like forgiveness, like the promise of something more. But here—

Here she had turned away, closed her eyes, shut him out entirely.

He stood there like a ghost outside her room, a silent sentinel, his body rigid, fists clenched at his sides. His jacket hung limp over one arm—he hadn’t even realized he’d been holding it all this time. Every fiber of him screamed to go to her, to throw himself at her feet and beg, plead, apologize for the thousandth time.

But she hadn’t asked for him. 

Hadn’t even looked at him since.

And he deserved it.

God, he deserved it.

The memory of the explosion—the sickening moment he chose, the way his Evol shield had wrapped around someone else while she bled and crumbled outside it—replayed in his mind in brutal clarity. 

No dream could erase that.

The dream felt like a cruel joke now—some desperate part of him trying to stitch together a world where she still smiled at him, still reached for him, still wanted him.

But reality was colder, crueler.

Caleb stared at the door, willing it to open, for her to call out his name, to say anything. 

It remained closed .

And so he stood there, drowning in silence, clutching onto a memory that wasn’t real.

Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Caleb looked up to see the Director approaching, coat shifting with each purposeful step. The man stopped a few feet away, studying him with those sharp, unreadable eyes.

"You should take a break," the Director said, tone cool but not unkind. "Your scheduled leave was supposed to start yesterday. Take it."

Caleb shook his head immediately, jaw clenching. "No. I need to be here. I need to be by her side."

The words came out rougher than he intended, scraping against the lump in his throat.

"I want to stay by her side," Caleb repeated, voice low and desperate.

The Director didn't flinch. Only arched an eyebrow. "Is that what she wants?"

Caleb stiffened.

"You should focus on what you both need," the Director continued. "She asked to be alone. Respect that. There are plenty of things to do later—you better take that vacation now, because you'll be begging for it once you see the workload waiting for you when you get back."

He didn't wait for Caleb’s protest. Just tipped his head once, a silent command. "It's an order, Officer."

Caleb opened his mouth—wanted to argue, wanted to plead—but the weight in his chest dragged him down. His shoulders slumped. His fists, clenched at his sides, finally loosened.

Inside that room, she hadn't looked at him once. Hadn't acknowledged his presence.

He was a ghost to her now. A living, breathing reminder of betrayal.

Of course she wanted him gone.

The guilt twisted deeper, sharper. A punishment he fully deserved.

He bowed his head. "Understood, sir."

The Director gave a short nod, already turning toward the door.

Caleb lingered for one more breathless second, casting a final look at the closed door that separated them. Then he turned away, boots heavy against the tile floor as he walked down the hall.

His mind flickered to MC, who was staying at one of the hotels in Skyhaven now, banned from the base after her mission had been completed. She hadn’t left for Linkon City. MC had said she wouldn't until she knew that her new friend was okay.

He'd have to meet MC soon. Tell her... something. Anything. Then they'd leave together, bound for their childhood home. Away from this city, away from the wreckage he'd made.

And maybe, just maybe, he'd figure out how to live with himself.

//

The room was quiet save for the faint beeping of the monitors she was no longer attached to. She sat up against the pillows, fully formed now, every inch of her body knit back together—but weak. Weary. Like a shell that still hadn’t figured out how to be filled again.

He stood across from her, silent. Tall, composed, his face carved in sharp, impassive lines. 

The Director. 

He didn’t speak at first. Just looked. And though he tried to school his expression into something flat and professional, she caught the slight, almost imperceptible way his eyes lingered.

She knew why. It wasn’t the first time he visited to talk. He had seen her. When she was still torn apart. Still ruined. Still nothing but a wreckage of what she used to be. It was him, after all, who had made sure everything was cleaned up. Hidden. Controlled. It was him who had arranged this private room, had shielded her from the world outside. He stepped forward and placed a folded newspaper onto her lap.

 "Read," he said simply.

She blinked at him, then lowered her gaze to the headline printed across the front page.

Chaos at Skyhaven: Minor Injuries as DAA Heroes Save Civilians.

Below it, a glossy photograph: the aftermath, smoke curling into the sky, rubble scattered, emergency teams swarming the streets.

The article was efficient, hopeful. They spoke of “minor injuries,” of “quick responses,” of “investigations underway.” They praised two DAA fighter pilots for their bravery. Two pilots. Caleb and Gideon, no doubt. There was no mention of her. No whisper of a civilian being crushed by the blast. No word of anyone bleeding out on the pavement. No body. Because there was none left to find.

Just blood that had already been scrubbed away. Bones that had already mended themselves. She folded the newspaper shut, her hands trembling slightly. The weight of the Director’s gaze was a solid thing pressing into her chest.

“I spoke with Officer Caleb,” he said finally, voice calm, but edged with something else. Disapproval, maybe. “He refused to tell me anything. Even at the risk of insubordination.”

Her stomach twisted.

“He’s loyal to you,” the Director added, almost thoughtfully. “Or perhaps just stubborn.” He crossed his arms. His coat shifted with the movement, heavy and formal.

“I’m not asking for your trust," he said. "But I can offer you protection. You, and the others involved. Caleb. Gideon. Whatever this is—” he gestured vaguely, encompassing the aftermath she could still feel stitched into her bones—"—if there’s a threat to my organization, I need to know now."

She said nothing for a long moment. Just stared at the newspaper resting against the thin hospital blanket. The scene kept playing behind her eyes.

Caleb’s eyes meeting hers.

Caleb running.

Not to her.

To MC.

How easy it had been. How natural . 

She wasn't the girl he cherished, the girl he swore to protect. That girl was someone who couldn't heal. Someone fragile. Precious. 

She understood. Really, she did. She didn’t want MC to get hurt either. She was grateful, in a bitter, broken way. But still. Still. She hated that she understood.

She hated how that made her pathetic.

And she hated, most of all, how it confirmed her suspicion. That every soft word, every careful look, every hand he offered after—the way he clung to her bedside like he cared—was all just... rehearsed. A show. 

Maybe he was only trying to pry information from her about Ever. Maybe all that guilt he wore so plainly across his face was just another manipulation. He was someone capable of that after all.

She almost, almost believed his facade before all of this. But now, it’s clear. Because no matter what apologies spilled from his mouth, no matter how many times he looked at her like he’s aching for her, when he whispered her name like it meant something—

Actions didn’t lie.

Instincts didn’t lie.

And his instincts had chosen her to die.

Her voice, when she finally spoke, was thin. Hollow. Like she was listening to someone else talk. Like she wasn’t sure whether this was the right action to take but she speaks anyway.

"I regenerate," she said. "My Evol lets me heal." Her voice barely rose above a whisper, but the words hit the room like a hammer. She didn’t tell him how deep it ran—how even when her heart splintered into dust, her body would still pull itself back together, stubborn and unasked.

"And once," she continued, her fingers picking at the edge of the newspaper, "I was part of an experiment. An organization called Ever. I think..." She swallowed, throat dry.

"I think they might have found me."

For the first time since he walked in, the Director reacted. His body stiffened. His eyes widened—sharp, calculating, almost alarmed. It lasted less than a second. A flicker. But she saw it. The way he inhaled, shallow and quick, the way his shoulders coiled as if preparing for impact. Then, just as quickly, he buried it. Smoothed it over with the cold, impenetrable professionalism of a man used to surviving wars both seen and unseen. He straightened his jacket with a flick of his wrist.

"I see," he said evenly, though the undercurrent in his voice betrayed him.

He studied her—really studied her—for a moment longer, gaze heavy and unblinking. The silence throbbed like a wound.

"There seems to be a lot of rats crawling around under my feet," he murmured, almost to himself. The words were calm, conversational even. But the shadow in his eyes was darker now. Sharper.

He turned away from her then, hands clasped behind his back, moving to stand by the tall windows overlooking the city. The light caught on the sharp line of his jaw, the stiff tension of his shoulders. A long silence stretched between them. Thick. Unrelenting. Weighted by the kind of truth that didn’t come with easy endings.

And in the hallway, beyond the closed door, she knew Caleb was waiting. 

She hadn’t realized she was holding her breath until he finally broke the silence. “If it’s Caleb you’re worried about, you needn’t be,” he said, his tone almost dismissive. He glanced at her once, and his gaze seemed to pierce through her, calculating. “I’ve given him an order to take a break. He won’t be around for a while.”

The Director glanced at her once more, his gaze unreadable. “I have to go. Let’s save the rest for later.” he said, his tone final.

Without waiting for her to respond, he turned, his footsteps echoing in the sterile hallway as he made his way toward the door.

She hadn’t even realized how tightly her muscles had tensed until his words unlocked something. A breath escaped her—slow, almost relieved—and she let herself sink back against the pillows, just for a moment.

But then, it hit her.

The explosion.

The thought flashed like a spark, searing through her mind: Caleb and MC were still in danger. It wasn’t over. It could possibly still happen. The destruction, the chaos—it had only just begun.

She sat up quickly, her body protesting, muscles stiff and sore. It felt like every movement cost her more than it should, but she pushed through. The exhaustion clawed at her, but she couldn’t afford to stop. She couldn’t just sit here, not when they might be in danger.

She staggered to her feet, unsteady, and chased after the Director. The Director’s back was already to her as he made his way down the hall. She stood there in the doorway, breath coming in short, shallow bursts, and she stopped him.

“Wait, sir,” she gasped. This was the fastest she had moved in a long time. She felt fatigued, her body aching from the effort, but she held herself up. The thought of what was coming—what would happen next—was all that pushed her forward. 

“You said you were offering protection.”

//

The kitchen smelled faintly of dish soap, its sharp cleanliness mingling with a faint trace of the food he had cooked earlier, the savory scent of it still lingering in the air. Caleb wiped his hands dry on the dish towel, his movements slow, mechanical. He watched the steam rise from his now-empty cup, the faint warmth of it brushing against his fingertips. His eyes were elsewhere, though. They weren’t on the cup, nor on the dishes that were now neatly stacked in their place. They were on MC.

MC sat at the small kitchen table, hunched slightly forward as she spoke with their grandmother. The way her shoulders relaxed when she laughed, the softness in her eyes as she gazed at the older woman—it hit him in a place he didn’t want to acknowledge. That had been his world once, before the chaos had taken root. Before everything had been tainted by secrets and lies, before the weight of responsibility had started pulling him further away from the ones who mattered. 

He’d been so sure of his place back then, so certain that this—this quiet, simple life—was what he was meant for. But now, it was like watching a dream from the outside, a life he had to pretend to fit into just to make her happy.

Caleb recalled the conversation MC, how she had sat across from him, eyes wide and desperate, asking if the girl was okay—begging to see her, just for a moment, just to know she was alive. She’d pressed him over and over, her voice breaking with each plea. But he couldn’t tell her anything. It was DAA matters now, locked behind walls even she shouldn’t scale. He had assured her, gently but firmly, that things were under control, that she didn’t need to worry. Still, she continued to ask. MC had always been stubborn. But today, she had been something else—a force, an unrelenting tide, trying to drag him into the current of her own questions. 

In the middle of their grandmother’s story about the garden, Caleb noticed MC stiffen. Her posture straightened almost imperceptibly, her hand slipping beneath the table to check her hunter watch. Whatever message she read made her eyes widen for just a split second before she masked it, pushing back her chair with a forced laugh.

"I'm gonna run out and grab some snacks," she said a little too brightly. Caleb’s jaw tightened. He knew her too well. There was no casualness in the way she grabbed her jacket, no real intention behind the excuse. 

Trouble.

He could see it in the rigid set of her shoulders as she hurried out the door. 

A silence had settled between him and their grandmother, awkward, thick, as if both of them knew she was lying too. He cleared his throat and set the towel down on the counter. “I’m going out for a bit,” he muttered, before pushing past the silence, making his way toward the door.

His grandmother didn’t protest, didn’t ask where he was going. 

As soon as the door clicked shut behind him, Caleb inhaled deeply. It was a cool evening, the sky tinged with fading daylight. He spotted MC’s figure rounding the corner of the house, heading down the street. She moved quickly, but not with purpose—not like someone who was going to pick up snacks. He knew what this was. He knew exactly where she was heading, and it would be reckless.

Caleb began walking faster, his steps quickening as he neared the street. He would catch up to her before she made it to the edge of town, before her curiosity and fear drove her into something darker.

But as he rounded the corner, a small figure caught his eye. It was a little girl, no older than seven or eight, standing by the side of the street. She was looking up at him with wide eyes, her hands clutching a doll to her chest, her blonde hair bouncing slightly as she shifted nervously from foot to foot.

“Are you Mr. Caleb?” the girl asked, her voice small, almost hesitant. She was looking at him with the kind of innocent curiosity only a child could muster.

Caleb slowed his pace, tilting his head slightly in confusion. “Who are you? Where are your parents?”

The girl glanced down at the doll in her hands, her expression a mixture of fear and determination. She looked like one of the neighborhood kids. Or not. It had been months since he was last here to even know the ones that come and go. But that was only because of her. Before, he had been meticulous enough to watch everything, everyone, at all times. 

“My parents aren’t here,” she replied, shrugging one shoulder. “Someone asked me to give this to you, Mr. Caleb.”

She held up a phone, pressing it into his hand with surprising urgency.

Caleb’s heart skipped. Something wasn’t right. Something about this didn’t sit well with him. The phone looked out of place, expensive, sleek in a way that made his stomach tighten.

“Who asked you to give this to me?” Caleb asked, crouching down to her level. “Where are your parents? Who—”

“I can’t tell you anything else,” she interrupted, her voice wavering just slightly. “I was just told to give you the phone.”

Before Caleb could respond, the girl bowed deeply, clutching her doll even tighter, before she bolted down the street, running away with surprising speed for such a small child.

“Wait!” Caleb called out, his voice rising, but it was no use. The girl was already gone, disappearing into the shadows of the street. He glanced down at the phone, his mind whirling. The moment he touched it, the screen lit up, and an incoming call began ringing.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as his hand hovered over the phone. It could be anyone.

It could be a trap.

But even as the thought crossed his mind, the ringing continued, relentless.

The decision felt heavier than it had any right to.

He swallowed hard, his gaze flickering toward the distant figure of MC disappearing into the dusk. He had to answer it.

He pressed the green button.

And as the voice crackled through the speaker, Caleb’s stomach dropped.

The voice that answered was wrong. It shifted, warbled—deep and gravelly at first, then flattening into something robotic, then abruptly snapping into the bright, cheerful tone of a woman before distorting again into the singsong cadence of a child. Like a machine gone haywire, flickering through masks it couldn’t quite hold onto.

“Hello, Caleb ,” the voice finally settled into something vaguely human, sickeningly sweet. His breath hitched. His pulse hammered in his ears. 

The voice chuckled—static-laced and too close. “How have you been? Enjoyed digging around in our little database?”

A chill rippled down Caleb’s spine. His fingers tightened around the edges of the phone. He remembered. He remembered that night—how when he first searched for her, nothing had come up. She didn’t exist, not in any system he could access. But then, hours later, almost like an invitation, data had appeared. Too much of it . So much it had flooded his screen—classified files, medical records, horrifying details that painted a picture no one was meant to see.

He hadn’t questioned it then. He was desperate. He needed answers. And by searching for her, he had exposed her. He had pinged them.

He had led them straight to her.

Caleb’s heart thudded hard against his ribs, his jaw locking so tightly it hurt. His free hand balled into a fist at his side, knuckles white, nails digging into his palm.

“We believe you have information that’s extremely crucial to us,” the voice continued, almost conversational. “You see, it’s so funny. We knew she was alive but for some strange reason…we could never find her. It was impossible, everything led to a deadend. But all it took…was one curious little soldier poking his nose where it didn’t belong.”

They didn’t know who he really was. They didn’t realize he was one of the kids—the failures—the ones who had escaped Ever’s grip. To them, he was just another pawn. Another means to an end.

“You made it so easy,” the voice cooed. “The moment you made that first search, it was like setting off a flare. We tracked you. And now…”

The voice shifted again, glitching between tones, like a monster trying on human skins.

“There was a young woman, wasn’t there?” it mused. “No background. No past. Just a pretty little mystery. It couldn’t have been anyone else. After all, there were only two girls who escaped.”

The voice laughed, high and wild.  “The rest of the children…” Another laugh, sharper this time, crueler.

“They never made it out of the lab.”

Caleb’s entire body was rigid, every muscle screaming with the effort it took to keep standing. His grip nearly crushed the phone in his hand. His breath came hard and fast, fury rising like bile in his throat.

“Between those two little girls,” the voice sang, “I wonder…which one you led us to.” The laughter grew louder, splintering into shrill feedback before cutting off sharply.

“You fucking sick bastards ,” Caleb snarled, low and venomous.

“Thank you,” the voice replied sweetly, dripping with mockery. Caleb could almost see the smug grin stretching across the speaker’s face.

“So, Mr. Caleb…would you be a good soldier and give her to us?”

A tremor ran through him—not from fear, but from the force of his hatred. He was breathing like he had just run miles, the world blurring at the edges with the weight of it.

“You’re not getting anything from me,” he growled. “I swear to god, I’m going to find you. I’m going to tear Ever down piece by piece .” 

A beat of silence.

Then, soft and distorted:

“Well…that’s regrettable .”

The line crackled ominously.

“We hope you don’t regret this decision.”

And then the call ended.

The screen went black.

And Caleb was left standing in the dying light, the phone cold and silent in his hand, the guilt clawing up his throat until it nearly choked him.

“Caleb?”

The voice was small but sharp against the numb roar in his ears. He blinked, dragging his gaze up. MC stood a few feet away, her hunter watch still strapped to her wrist, her hair slightly windswept from her rush back. Her eyes locked onto him, and whatever casual excuse she had been preparing to scold him for earlier dissolved the moment she got a good look at his face.

Caleb knew he must have looked awful.

His hands trembled at his sides, the phone gripped so tight it might snap. His breathing was too fast, too shallow. His vision was swimming, not from any physical injury but from the sick twist in his gut, the echo of that voice still ricocheting through his mind.

"You okay?" she asked, tentative, stepping closer.

He tried to snap out of it, to patch himself together. "You shouldn’t have gone off like that. What if you ran into something you couldn’t handle again? Charging into danger like you’re—"

"Caleb." She cut him off, her voice firmer now, but her worry bleeding through. "Don’t do that. Don’t change the subject."

She stepped into his space, close enough that he could see the sheen of tears threatening to spill over her wide eyes.

"Tell me what’s wrong," she whispered. "And don’t say it’s confidential DAA business all over again."

He opened his mouth to argue, but the look on her face stopped him cold.

"Please," she said, voice cracking. "I want to know if you’re okay. You already didn’t tell me whether she—whether she’s okay. I feel like this is my fault. I keep thinking—if I hadn’t been so useless—if I didn’t need protecting all the time—she wouldn’t have gotten hurt. If I hadn’t asked to go out, if I hadn’t been selfish, she would still—"

Her voice broke off completely as tears spilled freely down her cheeks.

Caleb's heart twisted painfully.

He moved on instinct, reaching out and patting her head, rough but gentle, like he used to when they were kids.

His hand came away stained faintly red—there was blood on her sleeve. Fresh. Not hers. Probably from another Wanderer she had taken down alone.

"It's not your fault," he said quietly, firmly, grounding himself with the truth in those words.

"I was the one who didn't act fast enough. I should have known. I could almost feel it—my evol, reaching for her, wrapping around her—and it wasn’t enough. I was slow. I was weak."

He swallowed the lump in his throat. His chest ached, like something was caving in under the weight of it all.

"I’m sorry that I can’t tell you everything," he continued, his voice low and hoarse. "It’s for her safety. For yours too. Please believe me when I say that."

MC wiped at her face roughly with her sleeve, smearing a bit of blood and tears together, but her sniffles softened. She looked up at him, eyes red, face blotchy, but nodded.

"I believe you," she whispered.

They stood there for a while longer under the darkening sky, just breathing in each other's presence. Not siblings by blood. But siblings by every choice that mattered.

Finally, Caleb ruffled her hair with a sigh, a soft, tired smile tugging weakly at his mouth. "Come on. Let’s go home before Grandma sends a search party."

Side by side, they trudged back down the street, the weight of everything heavier, but shared now between the two of them.

As they neared the front door, Caleb paused, throwing her a look over his shoulder.

"Oh yeah ," he said dryly. "You better wipe off the blood on your sleeve before Grandma sees."

She gave a choked laugh, scrubbing at the stain with a bit of her jacket. Caleb opened the door, the familiar scent of home wafting out to greet them—stew, tea, old wood.

He stepped inside first, already lost in thought.

Ever.

How the hell was he supposed to take them down? He was just one man—a fighter pilot in the DAA—choking on the sheer scale of it all. 

The door clicked shut behind him.

And then—

The world ripped open.

A sound like the sky tearing itself apart slammed into him, so loud it wasn’t noise anymore but pain—a physical, bone-rattling impact. Heat punched through the room in a blinding wave, searing his skin raw. The floor jolted violently underfoot, and the walls seemed to scream as they were torn apart, wood and glass exploding outward like shrapnel.

Light swallowed everything, a ravenous, devouring fire, and for one gut-wrenching heartbeat, there was no up or down, no past or future—only the brutal, obliterating now.

The house groaned as it was thrown apart, a brilliant flash of fire swallowing the doorway where they had just stood.

Caleb barely had time to register it before the blast hit him like a freight train, hurling him backward into the chaos. Muscle memory and panic fused into one; even as the world tore apart around him, his Evol erupted violently, slamming a shield of force around MC with a snarl of energy, desperate to keep her from shattering with the rest of it.

Before the darkness claimed him, Caleb saw her face.

It flickered in his mind, soft and haunting, like an illusion formed from the smoke and debris. Her eyes—so familiar, so distant now—stared at him from the wreckage. Her expression, one of concern, of tenderness, as though she had somehow materialized in the chaos, reaching out to him. The warmth of her presence, the safety of her touch, pulled him in like a tether to something real.

She was coming to him. Her hands stretched toward him, fingers trembling in the air as if to cradle him, to pull him from the edge of this madness. It was too much to bear.

Caleb closed his eyes, the noise of the world fading, the pain in his body just a dull throb now, and for a fleeting moment, he let himself believe she was there with him.

That everything would be okay.

//

Chapter Text

He’s been here before.

The dream greets him like a memory that refuses to fade—familiar and consuming. The void of space stretches endlessly, and yet it trembles with chaos. Fire roars. Wreckage spirals. Caleb is falling again, weightless and powerless, pulled into the gravitational collapse of a world on the brink of annihilation.

The sky burns above him. Below, the planet ruptures—cracked open by violent eruptions that light up the dark like dying stars. Shards of metal and fractured stone wheel around him, some aflame, some already ash. It's beautiful in the way that only endings can be.

And then—like always—there’s movement in the stillness.

A hand, reaching.

He doesn’t think. He knows . He’s reached for her before, and she for him. His arm shoots forward, driven by something deeper than memory, older than time.

Their fingers meet. Lock.

He sees her clearly. No blur. No doubt. It's her.

The woman who tore through fire for him. The one whose voice lingers in the quiet between his breaths.

But the stars are gone.

The void vanishes, and in its place—ash. Smoke. The broken skeleton of his childhood home groaning around them, embers dancing in the ruin like dying fireflies. The wreckage shifts, scorched beams cracked open like ribs. Dust floats in golden shafts of light filtering through the crumbled roof.

She's there. Really there.

Kneeling before him, blood on her skin, ash in her hair, holding his hand like it’s the only thing tethering him to the world. Her eyes, luminous in the smoke-hazed ruin, reflect his own—wide with awe, trembling with something too deep to name. In them, he sees his reflection: battered, burned, broken. And yet… smiling.

Not because everything is destroyed—but because she's here . Hand in hand, as if the fire hadn’t stolen everything. As if they had never been torn apart.

And even though his heart stutters and his breath falters, it doesn’t matter.

He surges forward, closing the space between them, mouth finding hers with the desperation of a soul clawing its way back to something real. A kiss born not of fantasy, but of survival. Of memory. Of longing. Of recognition .

The world may be in ruins—but in her arms, he's whole.

Caleb jolts awake— gasping .

He woke to stillness.

Not the usual groggy haze or lingering ache of injury. His body was… perfect . It felt as though he had been remade—like every broken piece, every shattered bone, had been pulled together and mended without him even noticing. There was no strain in his muscles, no resistance in his breath. Just—clarity.

His body, for the first time in… forever?… felt whole . Every movement was fluid. No soreness. No ache. No memory of the violent destruction that had torn him apart. It was as if he’d never been hurt. As if he had been made again, from the inside out.

He lay there for a moment, confused. Bewildered by the complete absence of pain. And then, a sharp clarity cut through the haze: He should be hurting. He should feel like he was recovering from something— something important. But instead, there was just this… overwhelming sensation of being whole.

He blinked slowly, adjusting to the soft, clinical light overhead. His surroundings were unmistakably familiar, but his mind struggled to catch up. It looked like a hospital, a medical bay. The sterile, cold walls. The faint hum of machines and the beeping of monitors. He knew this place.

But how?

He shifted, testing his limbs. No creaking joints. No stiffness. No sharp pain. Just smooth, easy movements. It was wrong. It was… too good to be true . He blinked. Turned his head.

And then, she was there.

A woman stood at his bedside. She wore a crisp white nurse’s uniform—immaculate, severe, almost too clean for the chaos swimming in his brain. She had her back to him, posture rigid, a datapad held lightly in her hands. 

His voice caught in his throat. “What’s… going on?” he rasped, the words foreign in his own mouth.

She turned.

And the moment their eyes met—everything stopped.

He didn’t know her. He shouldn’t know her. There was no name, no scene, no stitched-together memory he could recall. Her face was unfamiliar, just another piece in the foreign landscape of the blank canvass of his mind. And yet—his chest reacted before his brain could catch up.

Because her eyes were familiar .

Not in the logical sense, but in a way that gnawed at something buried deep in his bones. They were the kind of eyes someone would search for in a crowd. The kind of gaze that had once meant safety. Home. Everything.

A flicker of emotion—something ancient and aching—tightened in his chest.

She froze too, the datapad going still in her hands. The moment their gazes met, her expression shifted—just for a heartbeat. Her eyes widened, and he saw her lips part like she might say something, but no sound came. The tiniest falter in her breath. The smallest widening of her eyes. A crack, just for a heartbeat, in the mask of composure she wore so perfectly.

And in that heartbeat, he knew —without knowing how —that she mattered. His instincts screamed it. He didn’t remember her. But his body did. 

The way his heartbeat kicked. The way his fingers twitched, wanting to reach for her. The way the air between them thickened with something more than confusion.

Her presence felt… like something he should know. Like a piece of his life had been misplaced, and he was just catching the edges of it. But he couldn’t place her. Couldn’t connect her name to the face.

His chest tightened with the unsettling weight of the unfamiliarity. Something was there— something that had been wiped clean in his mind. He cared about her. He cared deeply. She was… important. But why ?

“…You,” he whispered, not even sure what he meant.

He wanted to speak more, but his mouth was dry, his throat constricted by the confusion in his mind. Instead, he just watched her. Waiting for something to click.

Her hand twitched toward him, as if to reach out, to pull him closer. And in that instant, he saw it: her face, raw with relief, softening as if she’d just exhaled after holding her breath for a lifetime.

But then, just as quickly, she shut it down. Like a mask falling into place. Her back straightened, her shoulders squared, and her focus snapped back to the datapad.

“You…You’re awake.”

Her voice was shaky but then steadied. Calm. Almost too calm, considering the brief moment of vulnerability he had caught before it vanished.

It didn’t make sense. He should feel more alarmed. He should feel panic, should ask questions. Who was she? Where is he? Why was she here? What had happened to him?

But all that slipped past his lips, with no reason or logic, was—

“…You’re here.”

Her fingers stilled on the datapad. She didn’t respond immediately. Her eyes lingered on him for just a second longer than necessary, but then she nodded, returning to her professional composure.

“Yes. I’ve been monitoring your recovery.”

She reached for a small scanner at the bedside, slipping it from its cradle with fingers that trembled—just slightly. Caleb wouldn’t have noticed if he hadn’t been looking so closely.

“Let’s run a quick check,” she said, her tone smooth, like the moment before hadn’t happened. “I’ll need to confirm your vitals now that you’re conscious.”

She leaned in, brushing the scanner gently over the side of his neck, across his temple. The touch was clinical, but her proximity stirred something in his chest again—an echo of familiarity he couldn’t name.

Caleb watched her. Not the scanner. Not the screen she checked next. Her. Every small movement. Every flicker in her expression she didn’t mean to show.

“You seem to be in good condition,” she said after a pause, scanning the data on her pad. “No residual trauma. No abnormalities in brain function. No visible injuries.” 

He blinked slowly. “…I feel fine.”

She gave a single, guarded nod.

But he didn’t feel fine. Not inside.

There was something missing. Or—everything was. His body worked. His lungs pulled air like they were new. His mind, though… was blank, like a freshly wiped slate.

And then he asked it. The question that had been clawing at the back of his throat.

“Who are you?”

The datapad nearly slipped from her hands. Her eyes shot to his, and for the first time since he woke, she didn’t bother pretending. She looked like he’d hit her. Like the words physically hurt.

Her lips parted, but nothing came out again. She stared at him, something shattering silently in her gaze, and she turned her head just slightly, as if to hide from it, to hide the tears pooling in them. As if looking at him while hearing those words was too much to bear.

He fidgeted, discomfort crawling up his spine. His hands gripped the thin blanket that covered him. Something in her expression—grief, yes, but something deeper too—unsettled him. 

Then, more quietly this time, as his voice cracked under the weight of it—

“I… who am I? ”

//

She had known about the explosion from the game. How sudden it happened, how badly he got hurt from a few lines written on screen.  

But it had always been just that. It was a cutscene that left her dumbfounded while playing, mouth wide open and mind screaming What the hell just happened. Because you didn’t think the cute overprotective childhood friend that was just introduced in the chapter, the one who you found so charming , would literally explode.

 Then he came back, his experiences summarized with no clear distinction on how he actually survived the blow. It was just that—a passing mention, a plot point in which the aftermath had happened off-screen. She never saw this. Not this. 

The memory returned unbidden—heat searing her skin, smoke curling into her lungs, the sharp scent of char and blood clawing at her throat. The world had been all flame and ruin when she found him, half-buried beneath the remains of his childhood home. His arm twisted at an impossible angle, his body bloodied and limp, his pulse fluttering like the wings of a dying moth. The ash had clung to her skin as she pulled him from the wreckage, fingers trembling, breath caught between prayers and panic.

She held him in her arms like something the world might steal if she blinked. Her Evol worked quietly, subtly—just enough to restart the fragile rhythm of his heart, no more, no less. She couldn’t risk being seen, not when Ever could be watching, waiting, not when she still didn’t know how they’d taken him in the game. But here, now, she had him—and she wouldn’t let them take him. 

And maybe that was the cruelest part.

Because he was so mangled, so broken in her grasp that, for a heartbeat, she almost forgot. Almost let go of the memories—the accusations, the betrayal, the silence that had followed after he left her bleeding, in more ways than one.

His blood had soaked through her sleeves, his body limp, twisted in ways no human should survive. His chest barely rose. His skin had gone cold. And in that moment, with fire behind her and ruin all around, she felt something terrifying settle in her bones:

No matter what Caleb had done, he would always be precious to her.

It was instinct. Involuntary. Bone-deep.

And god, didn’t that make her furious.

She’d told herself she was done. That she'd finally outgrown the shadow of him. Because familiarity wasn’t enough anymore. Because their shared history wasn't love. Because memory and attachment didn't erase harm and abandonment. She’d cataloged every cut, every cold dismissal, every time he turned away from her—and most unforgivably, the one time he made a choice that left her good as dead.

They all made mistakes, sure. She could shoulder the weight of pain. She knew how to bleed quietly. But there came a point where even she couldn’t pretend it hadn’t been too much.

She thought she had reached her breaking point.

Because what he did last—choosing someone else to protect, leaving her behind, letting her experience excruciating pain just because he knew she could recover from it—wasn’t just a mistake. 

It was abandonment .

And she was done being the person left behind. She wouldn’t be that again. Wouldn’t insert herself into another possibility where she wouldn’t be chosen. She knew her worth now—knew she was more than a footnote in someone else's destiny, more than a safe place to return to when everything else went to hell.

And yet.

Here she was. Ash-smeared, trembling, trying to keep him alive.

She let out a laugh, low and bitter, as she cradled him tighter, pressing her hand to the flicker of a pulse in his neck. What a fool she was. Still aching for a man who never chose her even once. 

She didn’t understand it. She wished it were simple—this ache.  That she could carve it out of herself, lay it bare on the floor and forget about it like he had forgotten her. But it clung to her, this fierce, unyielding love—soldered into the quiet spaces of her, rooted deep like something sacred and spiteful.

She told herself it wasn’t just love anymore.  That whatever this was, it had mutated far beyond tenderness—become a parasite of memory, of hope turned brittle. But still, it stirred each time she looked at him, even like this, broken and unconscious in her arms.

There was no logic to it. No sense. Only that her heart pulled toward him like the moon to the tide, inevitable and cruel.

She hated it. Hated how her body moved before her mind could catch up. Hated how she still reached for him.

Still loved him.

It wasn’t fair to blame him, not really. He’d been hurt. Changed. Carved hollow by the horrors he never asked for. And yet—

It was so hard not to resent how easily he forgot her. How she could drown in the gravity of him, while he floated free.

She liked to tell herself that everything between them had been doomed from the start. That if they had met as whole people—not products of experiments, not survivors of trauma—they might’ve stood a chance. Might’ve loved properly, without all the wreckage.

Of course not. He had game MC, still. There was never space for her in his heart.

Maybe, deep down, some part of her believed she’d been brought into this world for him. That their souls had always been meant to cross. That if she was persistent enough, if she stayed long enough, maybe fate would make room.

But it had all gone wrong. Every step forward turned sideways. Every choice made had left her burnt. 

She exhales, nodding.

The director had kept his word. His most trusted men emerged from the shadows—silent, swift, and loyal to no one but him. 

They secured the perimeter with precision, retrieving Caleb’s mangled form from her arms and placing him gently on the stretcher. 

She followed closely as they moved, her hand still pressed to his chest, her evol working subtly beneath her skin—just enough to keep his heart steady. The rest would come later, once they were safely inside the aircraft, far from the possibility of watching eyes. Only then could she heal him completely.

And in the ruins of what they could never be, she whispered a lie she’d told herself too many times:

“This is the last time.”

The last time she would reach for him. The last time she’d get burned. She’d leave if she had to. Anything to stop feeling this way.

//

Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, loud enough to drown thought.

At first, she thought she’d misheard him. That it was just the haze of sedation in his voice, the rasp of disuse in his throat. That maybe the words had twisted in the air before they reached her.

“Who are you?”

But then he looked at her.

And his eyes—so clear, so present—searched her face with polite confusion, not recognition. Not the weight of shared history. Not the moments they’d burned through together, nor the scars they left in each other’s wake.

Just… emptiness.

The datapad trembled in her grip. She didn’t even feel it slip until her fingers caught it too tightly, knuckles bleaching white. Her lungs seized. Her vision blurred—not from the ache of exhaustion, but from the pressure building behind her eyes, cold and suffocating and cruel.

Fate. Breathing down her neck. Watching.

Not as a benign force, not as a gentle thread weaving destinies together.

But as something malevolent. Sadistic .

A godless puppeteer perched above the wreckage of her heart, its skeletal fingers pulling string after string just to watch her unravel. Just to see how far she’d bend before she broke. And now, it was laughing. Smiling wide with teeth carved from every moment she had ever loved him. Amused by the fact that even now, after everything—he didn’t remember her.

Of course he didn’t. Because what else would Fate write for her? It summoned her across worlds to bleed. Again. And again. And again. To hand her heart back to her, mangled, then demand she keep beating with it.

She wanted to scream. To ask why. To rage at whatever twisted entity had led her here—why it kept circling her back to this boy, this man, this gravitational force she could never seem to escape, only to watch her break on him every single time.

And yet, she stayed rooted to the spot. Frozen. Because even now… she wanted to reach for him. Even now, while Fate cackled in the rafters of her despair, whispering, Look, look how easy it is to erase you, she wanted to hold his hand.

The moment struck her like a blade drawn slow—a wound that opened inch by inch. Her eyes stung.  Was that what she was to him? So easy to forget? So discardable, even in his subconscious?

Her mouth parted as if to speak, to plead, but nothing came. Just the sound of her pulse crashing like waves against her temples. A scream locked in her throat.

She turned her head slightly, eyes stinging as she forced herself to look anywhere but at him. Anywhere but at that face who looked at her with everything else but love. 

Her hands trembled in her lap.

And then he said it.

"I… who am I?"

Her heart lurched again, but this time, not from pain. From disbelief.

The ringing in her ears stopped. Her spine locked. Slowly—mechanically—she lowered the datapad onto her lap.

He didn’t just forget her.

He forgot himself.

The thought settled over her like ash. Smothering, disorienting. Her breath came in shallow pulls. She clenched her fists against the edge of the chair to ground herself.

“Do you know where you are?” she asked softly, voice trembling despite her best efforts.

He blinked at her, confused. “No.”

She nodded slowly. Her throat was tight, but she forced herself to speak. “Do you know what year it is?”

Another beat of silence. He looked down, searching for something in the folds of the blanket. “I… don’t know.”

Her chest ached. Her hands gripped each other in her lap, knuckles white.

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

He didn’t answer right away. His brows drew together faintly, and his eyes drifted upward as if hoping memory might descend like light through clouds. Nothing came. Only a furrowed expression. “There was… a dream. Fire. Someone… held my hand.”

Her breath hitched.

She looked at him then—not just looked but saw. The fog was gone from his eyes. That usual heavy weight he wore when he looked at her—resentment, regret, guilt—none of it was there. He wasn’t guarding himself. He wasn’t miserable.

He just looked confused. Open. Like a man seeing her for the first time and wanting to understand.

And that made it worse.

Because this wasn’t him. Not the version of him who looked at her like she was a threat, not the one whose voice had dripped with suspicion and accusations like poison. Not the one who shattered her heart with silence, with choices, with the ease of turning away. Not the man who chose someone else over her like it was the most natural thing in the world.

This was a stranger wearing Caleb’s face—but none of his damage. His eyes, though confused, were bright. Clear. Unburdened. And it gutted her, because for the first time, he was looking at her without the weight of their history. 

It was horrifying.

It was beautiful.

It was unbearable .

And still, she couldn’t look away.

“Okay,” she whispered, more to herself than to him.

She stood, suddenly feeling like her skin didn’t quite fit right. Her eyes stung again, and this time, she couldn’t stop the shimmer that escaped down her cheek. She wiped it away quickly, mechanically, like she could erase more than just tears.

She cleared her throat, quiet but firm, smoothing the tremble from her voice like she had a hundred times before in the field.

“I’ll call for the doctor to come assess you,” she said, professional, measured—like her hands hadn’t cradled his broken body in the ash just hours ago. “You’re stable. You’re going to be fine.”

The words were automatic, the kind meant to comfort a patient. But they weren’t for him. They were for her. A mantra, a reminder. He’s fine. He’s here. That’s all that matters.

She turned, footsteps soft against the sterile floor, each step a refusal to let her knees buckle. Her fingers ghosted over the control panel by the door, needing something to do, anything to focus on.

Because this was her chance, wasn’t it?

If Caleb truly remembered nothing, then maybe she could choose peace. She could continue her work at the DAA without feeling like every hallway carried his shadow. Without flinching at the echo of his voice in a crowd. Without that unbearable ache of being forgotten while still somehow never able to forget.

She could pretend they were nothing. That they had never been anything.

A clean slate—for him. And for her?

A lie she might just be able to live with.

Chapter Text

Caleb realized something was wrong almost immediately.

Not in his body—his body felt fine. Better than fine. There was no ache in his joints, no lingering pain in his muscles, not even the phantom weight of healing wounds. He felt rested, restored, like he’d slept for days under sunlight and clean sheets. It was almost unnerving, how good he felt.

He remembered waking. The soft whirring of machines, the chill of a too-bright room. But more than anything—he remembered her .

He hadn’t known her name. Hadn’t even understood what she was doing there. But looking at her had made his chest loosen, like he’d stumbled into something important without knowing why.

There was comfort in her. Instinctual. Fierce.

Everything else?

Gone.

When the doctors spoke to him, their questions scattered like leaves in the wind. His name? He paused for too long before answering he doesn’t remember. His rank? Nothing. His last memory? A blank sheet besides the dream he had. He had no anchor, no past.

The air in the room shifted with every failed answer. Conversations grew quiet. Their eyes took on that clinical shade of concern that people use when they don’t want you to panic. They prodded gently, delicately, with their questions and their tests—but they couldn’t hide what they were thinking.

Amnesia.

And through all of it, she stayed. Always a step back. Always composed. But she was watching. Not like the doctors. Not with curiosity or control. No—her gaze was something else entirely. A quiet heartbreak. A sharpness she tried to mask but couldn’t quite contain. Every time they mentioned memory loss, her expression flickered. Barely. A blink too slow. A breath too tight.

He noticed.

He couldn’t stop noticing her.

Her silence felt heavy. Familiar. Her eyes met his, and though they were red-rimmed and guarded, there was something in them that stirred something in him . Something old . Something missing .

He didn’t understand it. But he wanted to.

He couldn’t stop thinking about her. He didn’t know her name. Didn’t know if they were friends, or strangers, or something more. And yet—he felt safer when she was near. Like her presence alone could make the confusion easier to carry.

He should have felt like a man who had lost everything. But when she looked at him, it was hard to feel afraid. She steadied him without a single word.

He didn’t know who he was.

He didn’t know who she was.

But somehow, impossibly, he was sure she mattered.

The doctors had finished their checks, murmuring reassurances about Caleb’s vitals, his impressive recovery, and promising another round of scans in the morning. She stood silently at the edge of the room, arms folded tightly over her chest, nodding when necessary, her face unreadable.

When the last of them stepped out, she turned to leave with them.

“Wait. Please.”

His voice was hoarse, almost hesitant. She paused, hand still on the panel beside the door, her back to him for a beat too long before she turned. “Is there anything you need?” she asked, tone neutral.

He shifted against the pillows, discomfort shadowing his features. “You said you’ve been monitoring my recovery,” he said, gaze fixed on her. “Do you… know me?”

There was a pause. A breath caught between memory and restraint.

“I know of you,” she said carefully. “You’re one of the pilots in the DAA. When you’re ready, you’ll be oriented on what to do from here.” Her voice gentled, but only slightly. “For now, just rest.”

Not what he wanted to hear. Not what he expected.

But she had looked at him like she knew every part of him—like the shape of his hands had once meant something. Like his waking had unraveled something tightly wound inside her.

“What was I like?” he pressed, voice softer now, searching. “Before?”

She didn’t answer right away. Her fingers curled into fists at her sides.

“You were good at your job,” she said, barely above a whisper. “I’m sorry I wasn’t close to you.” Her eyes flicked away, toward the floor, the walls—anywhere but him. “I’m just another nurse in the fleet, it’s not my place to talk about this.”

Caleb frowned.

It felt like a lie. Something in the way her shoulders drew in, like she was bracing for impact. Something in the way her voice cracked, too quickly patched. She didn’t just know him.

Because every time she looked at him, there was something in her eyes that said otherwise. But he let it go. For now.

He gave her a full, tired smile, sincerity in every inch of it. “Thank you. For taking care of me. I didn’t get to say it earlier.”

She didn’t smile back but gave him a nod in acknowledgment.

“No need to thank me,” she said, voice clipped. “I was just doing my job.”

Then she turned and left, and the door sealed shut behind her like a sigh swallowed by silence.

//

The Director’s office was a sanctuary of order—clean lines, muted tones, and the quiet hum of machinery. She stood before him, her posture rigid, hands clasped tightly behind her back. The weight of recent events pressed heavily upon her, but she maintained her composure.

"Thank you," she said, her voice steady. "For your assistance."

The Director nodded, his gaze inscrutable. "We did what was necessary."

Her mind drifted back to the days leading up to the explosion—a blur of urgency and strategic planning.

“You said you were offering protection.”

She had approached the Director with a sense of urgency that had no room for delay. “Ever might be on the move again, and there’s a specific target. Caleb may be in danger.”

He regarded her for a moment, then shook his head. “I can’t mobilize my men on just ‘might’ and ‘may be ’. How are you so sure?”

She hesitated, the words catching in her throat. How could she possibly explain that she knew because she had seen it all before—in a game, in another life? But how could she explain that without sounding unhinged? That she had played through this scenario, watched the explosion unfold, and now it was happening again?

She couldn’t, and so she stood there, swallowing truths no one would believe. 

I wish I didn’t care , she thought.

God, she wished it.

She wished she could pretend this was something she could let pass. But it wasn’t. It was something deeper, heavier. A kind of knowing that lived in her marrow. It hurt. Every time she let herself think about him—really think—there was that dull, hollow ache in her chest. 

She still loves him.

That part had stopped being a question a long time ago. It wasn’t soft or romantic anymore. It wasn’t warm. It was a cold, aching attachment that she couldn’t cut, no matter how many times she tried. And the worst part was—

She wasn’t even sure why she loved him. Not after everything.

He had made it so easy to walk away. He’d forgotten her, looked through her, replaced her like she was a placeholder for something he never really wanted. And she—God, she had tried to move on. Had tried to tell herself that she deserved better. That she could be better without him.

She had wanted a life without Caleb. Without the shadow he left behind in every room she entered. Without the weight of loving someone who only ever saw her when it was too late.

Love comes easy to her. She hated that about herself. 

She thinks, But I’ve always been hard to love. At least by the one person I wanted it from.

And still, here she was.

Let me protect him this one last time. Not because I’m strong. Not because it’s right. Not because he deserves it. Because I couldn’t live with myself if I let it happen again. If I stood still and did nothing—not when I knew.

Because if she stood by and did nothing, if she let it happen, knowing she could’ve stopped it—she wouldn’t survive that. She knows he ends up surviving the explosion but she couldn’t bear the thought of him suffering even one more second at the hands of Ever. 

She closed her eyes briefly, as if that might steady her.

Freedom is the only thing she wants right now. But if it costs her this one last act—this final undoing—

So be it.

“Please trust me. You have my word. If I’m wrong, I ’ll give myself to the Deepspace Aviation Administration . You can utilize my Evol however you wish.”

She hated how hollow it sounded, how painful it was to say—like chewing on broken glass. A sacrifice wrapped in silk, offered with a trembling hand. But it was all she had. Her last and only bargaining chip.

The Director stilled. For a moment, his expression didn’t shift. Still, severe, unreadable. Then—he scoffed. A sharp, unimpressed breath through his nose.

“Utilize you?” he echoed, voice dry, almost offended. “Yes. I will. But not like that.” His voice dropped low, not cold, but firm—like a father chastising a child who should know better. 

“You’re one of our most skilled nurses, and you’ve held the line more times than I can count. That’s what I’ll utilize. Your talent. And if you ever choose to help a fallen comrade with your Evol then I am grateful.” 

“You don’t offer your life like a bargaining chip. Not here. We don’t do that.”

There was no warmth in his expression, just a steady, unreadable weight. But there was something else too. Expectation. A quiet reprimand.

“We're not in the business of theatrics. And the DAA may hold secrets, but we don’t build them on the blood of our own. We protect. That’s the point.”

He let the words settle between them like dropped stone.

“Don’t forget that.”

She felt the sting of it—brief, clean, and earned. It grounded her more than any comfort could have.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he added:

“Now. What exactly are we dealing with?”

The Director had acted swiftly. He mobilized his most trusted operatives, deploying them to scan and scout the neighborhood. Despite their efforts, there were no traces of Ever, no influx of energy. She had almost believed that the previous explosion in Skyhaven had deterred them.

But then it happened.

The explosion tore through the quiet of the night, a violent reminder of just how far Ever’s reach could stretch. The sky split open with fire and smoke, shattering the illusion of safety like  glass. When they arrived at the house, the air still shimmered with heat. Rubble smoked. The neighborhood had already begun to stir—shouts, alarms, sirens curling through the distance like echoes.

They made it just in time.

Game MC had been found just outside the wreckage, half-covered in ash and bruises, unconscious but alive—miraculously so. 

She had wanted to bring her along.

But the moment the DAA men surrounded them, the unspoken tension settled in like smoke. MC was a hunter. Aligned with another organization. Her presence alone could spiral into political strain—especially if word of the attack leaked.

And so, after terse words and a cold, level-headed assessment from the Director, the decision had been made.

Keep it quiet. Keep it clean.

The men transported MC to a nearby civilian hospital. No mention of the DAA. No mention of Ever. No indication that this was anything more than a tragic, isolated incident that may have been caused by a wanderer. It was safer that way—for everyone.

But as she watched them drive MC away, something in her twisted.

She hadn’t fought the choice, but it gnawed at her still. Because this wasn’t just protocol. These were lives. People she knew. People who knew Caleb and she knew for sure MC would mourn him. 

And all she could do now was move forward—toward the rubble, toward what was left. Toward the wreckage of a life she had already mourned once before.

She had to find him.

Back in the present, the Director spoke. 

“Caleb has lost his memories,” he began, his voice steady but laced with concern. “This development complicates our situation significantly.”

He paused, allowing the gravity of the statement to settle before continuing.

“Given the circumstances, I propose we take measures to ensure his safety and the integrity of our operations. Specifically, we should consider officially declaring him deceased.

The Director exhaled slowly, gaze sharp and unreadable. “If no one knows he’s alive, no one will come looking for him,” he said. “It’ll buy us time—to investigate, to figure out who’s behind this, and to keep him safe in the meantime.”

He looked at her.  “I don’t take this decision lightly. But with the kind of enemies we’re dealing with… this might be the only way.”

She frowned, her thoughts immediately spinning with risks and gaps in the plan. “Sir, I don’t mean to question your decision but how are we sure that he would be safe here?” 

“We pronounce him deceased but if we had spies on the inside, they’d know he was alive right away if he continued being here.” 

The Director didn’t answer right away. Instead, he regarded her for a long, measured moment. Then, slowly, his expression darkened—not with anger, but with the weight of something buried deeper. There was something in his eyes then—something colder, harder. A shadow that hadn’t been there a moment before. It was the kind of look that said: some secrets are better left unspoken. 

“Don’t worry about that,” he said, his voice lower now. Steadier. Final. “I’ve already taken care of it.”

//

Caleb feels like he’s being avoided. 

Every time the door creaked open or footsteps echoed faintly in the corridor, his eyes would snap toward the entrance—half-hopeful, half-uncertain. He didn’t know what he was waiting for until she stepped through.

Her.

But she kept her distance.

She only came when necessary. She checked the monitors, read through his chart, adjusted the IVs. Her fingers would press against his wrist, his neck, sometimes brushing his skin as she took his vitals—and every time, he found himself holding his breath. She was calm. Detached. But he wasn’t.

He blushed the first time her fingers ghosted over his pulse point. He didn’t even know why.

There was just something about her. The precision of her movements. The soft furrow between her brows when she thought he wasn’t looking. She was beautiful, yes—but more than that, she felt… familiar. Like déjà vu made flesh.

And yet, she never looked at him longer than she had to. Never spoke unless it was clinical. Every time he tried to ask her something—anything—she evaded.

It made him watch her more closely.

He tracked every flicker of her expression. Every time her eyes flicked to the floor. Every time her hand curled into a fist before she spoke. She was careful—too careful. Like she was afraid to be too close. Like just being here hurt.

And yet, she was the one by his bedside. The one monitoring his recovery. The one who had been there when he woke up, blurry and lost.

Who are you to me?

It haunted him.

He studied her now as she checked his oxygen levels, gaze focused on the machine. 

“Have we met before?” he asked, voice low but steady.

She didn’t look at him. “I’m part of the medical team.”

That wasn’t an answer.

Caleb’s brows drew together as he tilted his head, just slightly, like a confused pup trying to make sense of a strange command. He blinked up at her with an expression too earnest, too innocent. “That’s not what I asked,” he said, a soft pout tugging at the edge of his voice.

This time, she exhaled slowly, like she was holding back something heavy. Finally, she turned to meet his gaze.

“You’ve been through a lot,” she said carefully, “you might be confusing me with someone else.”

Caleb frowned. “I don’t think so.”

She didn’t flinch, didn’t waver, just offered him a polite, distant smile. “Memory loss can do that. Familiarity can be misleading.”

But he wasn’t convinced.

Because when she touched him earlier, he had felt something.

Something deep. Something important.

“I feel like…” Caleb hesitated, trying to find the right words. 

“I feel like you meant a lot to me.”

The words were soft—uncertain but sincere—and they hung in the air between them like something sacred, something trembling.

She froze.

Her fingers clenched into fists at her sides, nails biting into her palms. For one aching second, she didn’t deny it.

And that silence—that breath of hesitation—was loud enough to echo.

But then she exhaled, slow and careful, like she was trying to breathe out something she shouldn’t feel. When she spoke, her voice was too calm. Gentle. But detached.

“Maybe you’re just searching for something to hold onto.”

His brows knit, not in anger, but something closer to hurt confusion. “That’s not—”

“You haven’t been briefed yet,” she interrupted, sharp and even, like a wall snapping back into place. “But you should know you already have someone important in your life. And it’s not me.”

“Please know this,” she continued, colder now, turning slightly as if to walk away. “And stop associating that feeling with me.”

But Caleb didn’t flinch. He didn’t back down. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, like she’d just said something fascinating instead of heartbreaking.

“That’s not how feelings work,” he said gently, lips curling into a crooked smile that was boyish and warm and just a little sad. “Besides… even if you say it’s not you, you’re the one standing here. Right now. With me.”

“You’re the one I keep thinking about.”

She blinked.

That smile—soft and shy and sincere—hit her like a memory she hadn’t braced for. And he saw it. Not with smugness, not with glee. Just quiet awe. Like he’d touched something delicate without meaning to, and now he didn’t know how to let go.

“You told me I already had someone,” Caleb said, voice dipping, “but when I woke up… there was nothing. Just white lights, walls, a name they said was mine. And you.”

He looked down at his hands, then back up at her. “And maybe I don’t remember what I’m supposed to feel. But whatever this is—what I feel when I see you—it’s real. It’s here.”

He reaches out, eyes never leaving hers.

“I feel it. Like gravity. Like something pulling me to where I’m supposed to be. Like you.”

His hand hovered in the space between them, not touching—just reaching.

“And it can’t be nothing,” he whispered. “Not when it feels like this.”

She turned away, sharply, but not fast enough. He caught it—that flicker of something breaking through. The way her lips parted. The quick, subtle intake of breath. The blush rising at the edges of her cheek, treacherous and undeniable.

“I’m sorry,” he said, quieter now, but without an ounce of retreat in his voice. “I don’t want to make things harder for you. I just…” His eyes softened. “Even if I don’t remember the past… I want to get to know you in the present.”

Her throat tightened. There were too many truths she couldn’t say. Too many memories crowding behind her eyes, each one a different version of him—cold, distant, furious, indifferent. And now, this new version. This boyish, unguarded man who looked at her like she was something worth holding onto.

“I have to go,” she said, too fast, stepping back like the floor had just become unstable. “Try to get some rest.”

He gave her that smile again. Bright. A little wounded, but endlessly warm.

“I’ll be here,” he said simply. “If you ever want to talk. Or not talk. Or just… stay.”

She didn’t answer. Just turned, composed herself with the practiced efficiency of someone used to walking away. Behind her, Caleb watched her leave, still smiling. That gentle, innocent kind of smile that makes you believe in things again. Like a man at the very beginning of love, without knowing it’s already near its end. 

And when the door closed, he looked down at his hand—still half-reached—and let it fall to his side.

Chapter Text

The shift started the way most things did in the medical station—quiet, busy, and two hours too early.

She stood in front of her locker, adjusting the fit of her uniform, eyes a little hollow, movements mechanical. The morning briefing had been short. Nothing new to report except patient status updates—updates she already knew by heart. One of them in particular sat in her chest like a splinter.

“Hey!”

She turned, startled for a moment before softening at the sound of Mira’s voice. The other nurse was beaming, her hair still a little frizzy from the rain, cheeks flushed from her jog up the stairs.

“I can’t believe we finally have a shift together again,” Mira said, bumping her shoulder playfully. “They’ve been pulling us all over lately. I was starting to think they were avoiding putting us in the same room.”

She smiled, genuinely, even laughed a little. Mira’s warmth was infectious like that. Despite only knowing each other for a few months, Mira had this disarming way of making her feel like they’d been through friends for a long time. Maybe it was due to the kinds of things they did together. Emergencies, overtimes, containment breaches—moments that sped up the formation of any bond.

But she hadn’t told Mira the whole truth. Not about the explosion that tore her to pieces. Not about Caleb. Not about who he really was to her. Not about the hollow echo of his name in her chest when the medical logs first showed it. Mira only knew what everyone else did: patient admitted memory loss, a possible security concern now placed under close DAA observation.

“Yeah,” she said finally, dragging her lips into a smile. “It’s nice to be on the same floor again.”

But even as she spoke, her fingers fidgeted with the edge of her ID tag. Her gaze flicked to the hallway beyond the locker room door. She knew what was waiting there— who was waiting.

“Morning rounds?” Mira asked, slipping into her coat.

She nodded. “Yeah. Just… gonna get my folder.”

She lied. She already had it.

The medical bay had a certain stillness to it at this hour. Not silence—but a hum of machines, muffled voices from the hall, the occasional beep of a monitor. Clinical. Predictable. Comforting in its routine.

Except for him.

He was already awake when she walked past the threshold, like he’d been waiting for her.

He always was.

“Morning,” Caleb said, his voice lighter than it had any right to be. Bright. Hopeful. The kind of tone that cracked something inside her ribs every time she heard it. “You look well rested today.”

She didn’t stop walking. Didn’t even look at him.

“I have your vitals to check,” she said, voice clipped. “Let’s get it over with.”

But he only smiled. Like her coldness rolled right off him.

It sickened her, in a way she couldn’t articulate. The ease in his smile. The softness in his eyes. He looked at her like she was someone worth knowing. Worth waiting for. Like she hadn’t spent the last year trying to glue herself back together after everything he’d done.

He was only like this because he didn’t remember.

Because the slate had been wiped clean for him, while she still carried the weight of every shard he’d ever broken her with.

She hated it.

She hated that the only way she could have Caleb looking at her like this—so open, so eager and warm—was if he had no idea who she was. 

If this was how he had treated me when we first bumped into each other in that hallway, things would’ve been different. 

He had forgotten about her that time too, what was so different this time that had him acting like a lovesick puppy?

Yesterday, he’d greeted her like this:

“Morning,” Caleb said brightly, voice still rough with sleep but warm, like sunlight filtering through half-closed blinds. “You’re here early again.”

She didn’t reply. Just moved to the monitors, eyes scanning the numbers, fingers pressing buttons like muscle memory.

He shifted slightly, trying to sit up straighter without jostling his IV. “Did you get any sleep? You look like someone who could use a really good nap. Or a gallon of coffee.”

He grinned—sheepish and hopeful, like he wasn’t sure if the words were landing but wanted to try anyway.

“I mean that in the nicest way,” he added quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “Like… you're working too hard. Not that you don’t look—uh, you always look... put together. Just tired. The kind of tired that deserves a good nap.”

He looked at her like she was someone worth worrying about. Like she mattered.

She didn’t look at him. Didn’t let the pause in her breath turn into anything more.

“Focus on your recovery,” she said flatly, checking his IV line with practiced hands. He didn't really have much to recover from really, she had taken care of everything after all. 

But Caleb had only nodded, still smiling—quieter now, like he understood the distance but couldn’t help wanting to cross it anyway.

Two days ago.

She entered to find him sitting upright, legs dangling over the edge of the bed like he’d been waiting for her all morning.

“I’ve been briefed,” he said casually, like he wasn’t trying too hard to sound nonchalant. “Apparently I need to stay in here a while longer. Observation and all that.”

She didn’t respond, just scribbled something on his chart.

He leaned his head back against the pillow with a sigh. “Kinda sucks, to be honest. I don’t know… I get the feeling I’m the type who likes to be outside. Moving around. Running, maybe? My legs feel restless all the time. Like I miss something I can’t remember.”

His voice dropped slightly, quieter. “But at least I get to see you.”

That part hung in the air for a second too long.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t look at him. Just tapped a few notes into his file and replied, evenly, “Your muscle tone is holding steady. The physio team will evaluate once the neurologists clear you.”

That was all she gave him. Just data. Distance.

But Caleb beamed at her anyway—that soft, slightly lopsided smile that felt too bright for a room like this. “Good,” he said. “That’s good. Thanks.”

He didn’t say it again, but he looked at her like he was still thinking it: At least I get to see you.

And she hated how her heart responded to it. How her fingers tightened just slightly around the stylus. How she could feel his gaze like warmth at her back.

But she said nothing. Just walked to the next monitor, keeping the line between them firm—even as something inside her ached with how easy it was for him to smile at her like that.

And today—

“You came,” he said, like she was the one doing him a favor. “Wasn’t sure if you’d show.”

“I’m assigned to this wing,” she replied as a matter of factly, already checking his blood pressure. “I’m here because it’s my job.”

“I know,” he said, still smiling. “But I like to think it’s fate.”

She didn’t answer.

Her hand moved with practiced efficiency, but when her fingers brushed the inside of his forearm—warm, alive, unmistakably human—she paused. Just for a beat too long. It was muscle and skin now. Veins pulsing beneath the surface. A body that felt real. Felt alive.

She’d stitched it back together herself.

She remembered in game how at first, the concept art of Caleb with a mechanical arm looked so cool and so hot she had purchased the outfit right away. But the story that came with it wasn’t so fun. That arm when it wasn’t flesh at all—just fitted alloy and matte plating, gleaming and cold. A machine grafted to a man who’d now be a weapon. Efficient. Imposing. Detached.

That arm had held the power to crush but it had never held warmth.

She couldn’t let it happen. 

Her fingers lingered on his wrist, her touch too light to justify the delay, too heavy with everything she couldn’t say. His pulse thudded steadily under her palm, and she could feel it — the proof that he was still here. Still alive.

He looked down at her hand, then back up at her with that quiet openness he wore like second nature now. “Your hands are really warm,” he said, almost sheepishly. “That’s probably dumb to say. I just… I don’t know, it just feels really nice.”

Something inside her twisted sharply. She pulled her hand back as if burned.

“Vitals are normal,” she said quickly, reaching for the chart to write it down, her voice flat again. Cold. Neutral. Like distance would save her.

But he didn’t seem to notice the shift — or maybe he did, and just chose not to back away. He was still smiling when she glanced up.

And it made her want to scream.

Why do you get to smile at me like this?

Why now, when it costs you nothing?

Because he didn’t know.

And maybe that was the worst part. 

He still had his warmth now.

And she still had every scar.

She had loved him. Still loves him.

Loved him in a quiet, patient way. The kind of love that endures through disappointment and distance and silence. And he never loved her back. Not like that.

And now? Now that he couldn’t remember?  Now he looked at her like she was the beginning of something.

But she knew better.

He wasn’t hers.

And she would not be fooled again by the softness of a smile that didn’t cost him anything.

//

Caleb had been in the med bay for two weeks. Fourteen days of white walls and antiseptic air. Of sleepless nights and fragmented dreams that dissolved like mist the moment he opened his eyes. They told him it wasn’t unusual for recovery to take time. That sometimes memory returned in flashes, in pieces—like a puzzle slowly bleeding into clarity.

But he was still blank.

No flashes. No puzzle.

Just this heavy, hollow ache in his chest when he looked at her.

He didn’t know her name. Not officially. She never offered it. No one ever said it in front of him. But she moved like she’d done this a thousand times. Like she knew exactly where to press to stop the bleeding. Exactly how to pull a man back from the brink.

Like she’d done it for him before.

The Director had come in that morning—sharp suit, sharper eyes—and given him a choice. Stay under monitoring, or start easing back into physical training under supervision. Something about how muscle memory was real, how even if he couldn’t remember who he was, his body might. It was the first time someone offered him a real option, and he leapt at it.

Now, he sat on the edge of his bed, bouncing a tennis ball absently against the wall while Gideon leaned against the windowsill across from him, arms crossed, half-smiling in that crooked way that said I’ve seen you fall on your ass and I’ve seen you save lives.

Caleb liked him. He wanted to remember him.

“You sure about this training thing?” Gideon asked, arching a brow. “Director can be kind of a hardass about it.”

“I mean… what else am I supposed to do? Lie here and wait for lightning to strike?”

Gideon laughed at that, tossing an apple from one hand to the other. “Fair. Just don’t break yourself again. I’ve had enough of seeing you in hospital beds.”

Caleb hesitated, catching the ball in both hands. “So… we were close?”

“Me and you?” Gideon smirked. “Yeah. Pain in my ass, but yeah. You were a good fighter. Smart. Little reckless, but always for the right reasons. You gave a damn. About people. About the mission. About doing the right thing, even if it hurt.”

Something tightened in Caleb’s throat. He looked down at his hands.

They didn’t look like fighter’s hands.

They were smooth. Unmarked. Skin unbroken by time or trauma—like they had never gripped a blade, never braced for impact, never seen the inside of a battlefield. He flexed his fingers slowly, as if waiting for the callouses to reappear. For scars to rise like memories.

But there was nothing.

 All he felt was a slow, confusing ache. “That sounds like someone I’d want to remember.” he said quietly, but doubt edged his voice now—soft and unsure—like he was trying to convince himself the man Gideon described could really be him.

“Amnesia’s a bitch,” Gideon said, not unkindly. “It’ll come back when it comes back. You’re still you, even if the past is in a fog.”

Caleb swallowed. Then, quietly: “Then why does that nurse hate me?”

Gideon paused. Visibly. His lips parted like he was going to say something, but no words came out. Instead, he let out a half-laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, see… that’s a really good question,” he said, dragging out the words like he hoped humor would soften the blow. 

Caleb frowned. “So you don’t know?”

Gideon hesitated again.

And Caleb saw it. Not in what Gideon said, but what he didn’t. The way his gaze slipped sideways, the way his posture tensed ever so slightly. He knew something. But he wasn’t saying it.

“Gideon,” Caleb said, more firmly now, “why does it feel like everyone’s walking around that topic like it’s glass?”

There was a beat of silence. Then Gideon sighed, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the med bay wall.

“Did… did I do something bad to her?” he asked, his voice lower now. Almost ashamed. “I mean, I hardly know her. And I know that sounds crazy, but I… I feel something when I’m around her. Like I care. Already. I want to talk to her, make her laugh, just… know her. But every time I try, it’s like she’s bracing for a hit I don’t remember throwing.”

His brows knit as he forced the words out.

“How could I have hurt her like that?”

Gideon was quiet for a long moment. His gaze softened, some of the humor bleeding away.

“I don’t know everything,” he said, voice quieter now. “But yeah… you did some damage. Back then.”

Caleb flinched. Just barely.

“But it wasn’t all you, not really,” Gideon added quickly. “There was a lot going on. You weren’t exactly yourself by the end, and… Look, I probably shouldn’t be saying this.”

“No,” Caleb said. “Please. I need to understand. Even if it hurts. Especially if it does.”

Because he couldn’t reconcile the person Gideon described—a reliable friend, a fighter, someone who mattered—with the way she looked at him now. Like she was surviving his absence, even in his presence. Like she was still putting herself back together from pieces he didn’t remember breaking.

And worse—he couldn’t imagine being the kind of man who would ever make her look that way.

“I’m sorry, Caleb,” Gideon said at last, sounding genuinely frustrated. “I wish I knew more, but… you didn’t tell me much either. I’m pretty lost too.”

Caleb studied his friend’s face, the furrow in his brow, the slight downturn of his mouth. He wasn’t lying. That was the worst part.

“But from what I did see…” Gideon continued, “she was friendly with you at first. Like, really friendly.”

Caleb’s lips parted slightly. “And then?”

Gideon shrugged, hands dropping helplessly to his sides. “Then she just stopped. Cold. One day she was always watching us during training then the next time, she wouldn’t even make eye contact.”

That didn’t make sense. It didn’t feel right. Not with the way she looked at him now, trying so hard to be indifferent and failing in ways he noticed more every day.

“How was I… with her?” Caleb asked, carefully. “I mean—what kind of person was I around her?”

“You were pretty careful,” Gideon said, after a beat. “Always observing. Always a few steps back. It comes with the job, I guess. You weren’t really interested in women in general. Kept things professional.”

Caleb frowned. “But?”

“But something changed. You started… seeking her out. You didn’t say anything, but it was obvious. You were going after her.”

“And she avoided me,” Caleb murmured.

Gideon nodded. “Yeah. For weeks. Maybe longer.”

Caleb leaned back in the chair, silent, the room suddenly feeling colder. The sterile white walls of the med bay felt like they were closing in. He didn’t remember any of it. Not the smiles, not the distance, not the shift between them that left her looking like she was trying not to flinch every time he smiled.

But the ache in his chest was real.

His gut was telling him— screaming at him—that he needed her. Not just in some abstract, chemical memory way. But in the way stars need gravity to stay where they belong. In the way his gaze always found her first, no matter who else was in the room.

She was familiar, yes—but more than that, she felt right.

And maybe that made no sense. Maybe it was unfair. But the pull was undeniable.

He could gain her trust again. Slowly. Gently. No expectations. Just a steady presence. He could find his place beside her once more—wherever that place had been, whatever it had meant before.

It didn’t matter that he had forgotten her.

It didn’t matter how far he had fallen out of her orbit.

If this was his second chance—he’d earn it.

He wasn’t afraid of the work it would take. The patience. The waiting.

As long as she was here.

He would make sure they never lost each other again.

//

Desk duty was manageable. Peaceful, even.

She could do peaceful.

There were no vitals to check, no awkward silences between coughs and clipped sentences. Just paperwork, triage calls, the occasional misfiled form. Her pen moved steadily across the page as soft murmurs of the medical wing filled the background—comforting white noise.

And most importantly: no Caleb.

Ever since he was discharged and cleared for light training, she hadn’t seen him. Not first thing in the morning. Not mid-shift. Not in the hallway with that boyish, slightly-too-bright smile that always made her feel like she was in the wrong for not returning it.

She hadn’t realized how exhausting his presence had been until it was gone.

No more polite deflections. No more pulse points that thudded too real beneath her hand. No more apologies in his eyes he didn’t even know he needed to give.

It was easier this way.

She didn’t miss him. (She did.)

Of course she didn’t.

It wasn’t him she missed—it was silence. Clarity. A life not tangled in the echo of someone she used to love so hard it broke her bones. He wasn’t in her face anymore, wasn’t looking at her like she was the center of some new, unspoken story. And without that constant warmth pressing against her like sunlight she couldn’t afford to bask in, it was easier to breathe. To think.

To pretend she was over it.

Everything had changed now. The timeline had shifted. She had made choices she wasn’t supposed to. Fixed things that weren’t hers to fix. Who knew what Ever would do in response? Who knew how much they remembered, or what they’d figured out?

She didn’t have time to babysit a ghost of the man who once hurt her.

She didn’t have space to feel anything—not guilt, not longing, and definitely not that fragile, traitorous hope that bloomed every time he looked at her like he wanted to start over.

She had her own self to worry about.

The past couldn’t touch her if she didn’t reach for it. If she just kept her head down. Stayed away from him. Maintained the distance.

She could do this.

She could. It was just her, her desk, her computer, and—

Coffee and cake. And then she looked up.

Caleb. 

“For you,” he said, bright but gentle, like he was trying not to scare a bird off his hand. “Thought you might need it after a long day of desk duty.”

The peace was nice while it lasted.

She said nothing.

“I, uh… asked around what you liked. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t lik—”

“Aw, it’s your favorite,” another nurse cut in cheerfully as she passed by with a stack of new patient reports. “You said you’ve been craving it. Good for you.”

And that was the thing.

She had .

Strawberry shortcake from that specific café—the one that had been closed after the explosion. The one she used to go to when she needed something sweet after a brutal shift. It had reopened recently, but she hadn’t gone. Hadn’t had time. Hadn’t wanted to be seen.

Now it sat on her desk. A perfect slice. And beside it, her favorite coffee, still warm.

Her throat tightened.

She looked at him.

He looked proud of himself, like he’d done something meaningful. Like he’d tried. And that made it worse.

He didn’t even know what he was making up for.

She stared down at the cake like it had personally betrayed her. Her fingers hovered over the lid of the cup, then curled into a fist instead.

“You shouldn’t bring me things,” she said.

“I just thought—”

“You thought wrong.”

There was no anger in her voice. Just weariness. Dull, practiced restraint.

He flinched a little, but not enough to get him to give up completely. Instead, he nodded. Almost smiled again—less confident this time, more thoughtful. “Right. Sorry. I’ll leave you to it.”

He walked away.

And it should’ve felt like peace again.

But it didn’t.

It felt like coffee cooling too fast. Like sugar turning to ash on her tongue. Like silence louder than it should be.

She didn’t miss him.

She couldn’t afford to.

But the longer she stared at that damn slice of cake, the more it felt like he’d left a question behind.

One she didn’t want to answer.

//

She had underestimated him.

Not his charm—she knew that too well. Not his smile, or the way he could tilt his head just so and say something that made people feel like they were being seen for the first time. Not even his natural pull, that inexplicable gravity that seemed to draw people into his orbit without effort.

No. She had underestimated how relentless he could be.

Not in the way that was invasive or overbearing—he wasn’t that cruel, not anymore, not like before . But there was something quietly stubborn about him now. Something that didn’t flinch in the face of her silences, that didn’t retreat when met with the chill in her voice. Something softer. Something patient.

He was still Caleb. Still handsome, still infuriatingly bright-eyed. But this version of him—the version without the weight of memory—had nothing to lose, and everything to give. And he gave it all to her. Smiles, small kindnesses, light-footed attempts to make her laugh or soften—he offered them like peace offerings, like prayers.

And she hated that sometimes… just sometimes … it worked.

She’d built up her walls out of necessity. Brick by bitter brick. And still, Caleb was there, tapping at them with that boyish grin like he thought he could knock them down with a few well-placed jokes and cups of her favorite coffee.

She was just turning the corner out of med bay when Caleb appeared—like clockwork.

“Hey!” he said with that wide, irrepressible grin that always made it seem like he had a secret and wanted her to be in on it. “You’re off early today. Lucky me.”

She didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look at him.

“I wasn’t waiting here, by the way,” he added quickly, walking backward beside her, careful not to bump into anyone. “I just happened to be in the area. Total coincidence.”

Still nothing.

“Okay, maybe a little bit of waiting. Just five minutes. Seven tops.”

She turned into the stairwell without a word, the echo of her footsteps louder than his fading, sheepish chuckle.

But she didn’t roll her eyes. She didn’t scoff.

She just… kept walking.

Then, he’d taken to leaving things on her desk.

Little things. Useful things.

The first time, it was her favorite brand of antiseptic hand cream. No note. Just left neatly beside her keyboard, like a mystery.

The second time, it was coffee again—right order, right temperature, with her name scrawled in his neat cursive handwriting across the side of the cup. She gave it to Mira without tasting it. But she noticed the scrawl. And how it curved a little like a smile.

The third time, it was gone before she got there. Mira had grabbed it, already knowing she wasn’t going to drink it.  “Whoever your secret admirer is,” she’d said, laughing, “they’re either really cute or really desperate.”

There was also the time when she decided to go for a jog around the track oval near their accommodation. Just late enough to avoid crowds, just early enough to clear her head—when a familiar figure jogged into view.

Sweat-soaked shirt. Easy grin. Hair damp and tousled in the way that should be illegal.

“Didn’t know you trained this late,” Caleb said, catching his breath. “We must be on the same wavelength.”

She shot him a look. “You followed me.”

“Technically, I’ve been here since the afternoon so you’re the one who followed after me.” He grins, she exhales.

“I don’t have time for this, Caleb.”

But she didn’t leave. 

He stretched beside her, all long limbs and casual strength, like he had no idea what kind of chaos he stirred just by existing. She ignored him. She absolutely did. 

Even when he said, “If I faint from exhaustion, will you carry me back to the med wing?”

She tossed her towel at his head without looking. He caught it midair.

“Is that a yes?”

It wasn’t.

And when she was patching up a recruit’s busted knuckles. Caleb walked by on his way to training.

“You really know what you’re doing,” Caleb said, his voice gentle, focused as he leaned against the med bay doorway, watching her work.

She didn’t look at him. Just continued inspecting the recruit’s wrist with clinical precision, her fingers moving swiftly and surely.

“I mean it,” he went on, determined. “The way you move, how you handle injuries—it’s like watching a doctor. Honestly, you could be one. You’re made for this.”

That made her pause. Just briefly.

Her hand lingered a fraction too long on the recruit’s arm, fingertips stilled on warm skin, and for a split second, she felt it—that familiar twist in her chest she’d tried so hard to ignore.

“I’m not a doctor,” she muttered eventually, still not meeting his eyes. “And don’t flatter me while I’m working.”

Caleb smiled to himself, pleased. That had almost sounded flustered.

The recruit, a younger trainee with a bruised wrist and a head full of bravado, gave a small, bashful laugh. “You’re really gentle. I thought this was gonna hurt way more.”

This time she turned—toward the recruit, not Caleb—and arched an eyebrow as she finished tying off the bandage. “Thank you,” she said.

Caleb, now behind her, blinked and his expression darkened. The warmth in his smile flickered out like a light. The look he sent the recruit could’ve curdled milk. A silent, blistering glare that said: You wanna die today?

The recruit visibly tensed, spine snapping straight like a board. His smile faded. He gulped.

“Please don’t tense up all of a sudden,” she scolded, still facing away from Caleb, oblivious. “That’s dangerous.”

“I—uh—sorry,” the recruit squeaked, eyes darting anywhere but the man across the room currently staring holes into his soul.

She turned back just in time to see Caleb’s expression smoothing over, all sunshine and serenity again like he hadn’t just committed a murder with his eyes.

“Everything okay?” she asked, mildly suspicious.

“Perfect,” Caleb said with a grin, straightening up. “Always good to watch you work. Really puts things in perspective.”

The recruit didn’t say a word.

He just clutched his newly bandaged wrist like it might protect him from further doom, and refused to look Caleb’s way even once as he shuffled out of the room with the quiet panic of someone who had narrowly escaped death.

Caleb, ever the gentleman, opened the door for him on the way out.

He smiled. The recruit ran.

She watched him go, mildly confused. He must have wanted to get back to training as soon as possible.

Unlike the man who was still very much not going anywhere.

She didn’t have to turn around to know he was still there. She could feel him—his gaze like a pressure between her shoulder blades, too steady, too familiar.

She sighed. “Did you need anything?”

“Not really,” Caleb said, his voice easy, soft. “Just wanted to see your face before I went back to training.”

The words landed like a feather and a stone all at once. Light. And yet—

She didn’t let her expression change. Not even a twitch. She pressed a gauze box into a drawer with a little more force than necessary and said flatly, “Please refrain from entering the medical bay if you’re not in need of medical assistance.”

There was a pause.

“Does that mean,” Caleb said, tilting his head, “if I want to see you, I should ask you out instead?”

She turned to him, slow, unimpressed.

“No.”

He grinned like her rejection was the best thing he’d heard all day. “Was worth a try.”

She didn’t answer, just moved to wipe down the exam table like it needed more attention than him—which it did. It had to. Because if she let herself even look at him too long, she’d feel it again—that ache, that pull, that stupid, dangerous softness she couldn’t afford.

Still, for the first time in a long while, there was no sharpness in her voice. No bite.

And Caleb noticed. Of course he noticed. The way his eyes lingered on her as he stepped toward the door, just a little reluctantly.

“I’ll see you around,” he said.

“You won’t if you follow protocol,” she replied without looking up.

He chuckled, hand on the doorframe. “You’re really not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

She finally glanced over at him, just once.

“No,” she said, quiet but steady. “I’m not.”

His smile faded into something softer. Real.

“That’s fine. I have a feeling I’m not the type to give up easily anyway.”

And then he was gone.

//

Chapter Text

The afternoon light was harsh through the med bay windows—too white, too sharp. She hadn’t looked up from her screen in over an hour. Her fingers moved across the keyboard with practiced precision, eyes scanning data, inventory lists, and wound classifications as if memorization might dull the ache forming behind her temples.

Outside, the hall buzzed faintly with clipped footsteps, intercom murmurs, and the occasional cough from recovery. Inside, the air was clinical and still, disturbed only by the low hum of a ventilation unit and the occasional rustle of papers.

She didn’t hear him enter.

She only noticed him when the scent hit her—subtle but distinct. Something warm. Garlicky. Rich. Her fingers hesitated mid-type. Her eyes didn’t lift, but her body stilled.

“You didn’t go for lunch,” Caleb’s voice said, light, casual.

Her spine straightened. He always spoke like that around her lately—carefully unbothered, like he wasn’t deliberately treading minefields with every word. She hated that he made it sound so easy.

“I know you don’t always have time to stop by the cafeteria,” he added, and she could hear the faint scrape of something being placed on the corner of her desk, just out of her immediate view. “And I remembered Mira said you skip meals when you’re stressed.” 

That made her pause. Mira. Of course.

She exhaled through her nose, slow and pointed, before finally lifting her gaze. 

There it was.

A lunchbox.

Neat, stainless steel. Matte surface, polished corners. Nothing flashy. Practical. The kind someone might take care packing.

She looked at him next.

He was standing a step back from the desk, hands in the pockets of his standard-issue cargo pants, casual as ever—but his shoulders were tense, just slightly. Like he was bracing for a hit. His hair was damp at the temples, maybe from training or the heat outside, and there was a smudge of something—maybe flour, maybe something else—near the cuff of his sleeve.

It occurred to her, distantly, that he’d made this himself. 

“I’m not stressed,” she said coolly, finally, her voice clipped and clinical. “Don’t psychoanalyze me.”

He grinned anyway. Unbothered.

“Then you have no excuse not to eat.”

Her eyes returned to the lunchbox. She made no move to touch it.

“I’m not eating anything from you.”

His smile didn’t falter. But something behind it flickered—an understanding, perhaps, of the hundred things she didn’t say. The unspoken list of history and heartache she kept pressed beneath her tongue like a bitter pill.

“Good,” he said, almost cheerfully. “I’ll bring something else tomorrow. Trial and error.”

He didn’t linger for a reaction. He never did when he thought pushing might make her retreat further. Instead, he offered a casual salute—two fingers to his temple—and walked out with the same easy stride he’d come in with.

She didn’t watch him go.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard again, then dropped into her lap.

Silence returned.

Only now it wasn’t clean. It wasn’t peaceful. It pulsed with something else—curiosity, maybe. Or guilt. Or worse: the soft, humiliating warmth of being thought of.

She stared at the lunchbox for a long time.

It was too neat. Too deliberate. The latches gleamed slightly under the artificial light, like it had been wiped clean just before he brought it in. No note. No dramatics. Just the food.

She didn’t open it until after her shift.

Not in the bay, not with people around. She waited until the halls had emptied into their usual twilight hush, when even the nurses’ station had gone quiet. She brought the box to the sink tucked in the back break room and opened it there, like she was disarming a bomb.

Inside was steamed rice, fluffy and perfectly portioned. Sautéed vegetables cut into uniform strips. Chicken, marinated and grilled with a golden crisp along the edges. Even a small section of sliced fruit, cold and sweet against the heat of the rest.

Every compartment was laid out with a precision that made her chest ache.

She stared at it for a full minute before picking up the utensils tucked beneath the lid.

She ate it all.

No one saw her.

She washed the box afterward. Hands methodical. Movements efficient. Like it didn’t mean anything. But her fingers lingered when she dried it, thumb brushing along the edge before she set it to dry beside the other communal mugs and trays.

It sat there under the flickering kitchen light—clean, empty, and unmistakably his.

She didn’t tell Mira. She didn’t say anything to anyone.

But the next day, when Caleb passed her in the hallway and gave her a grin—lazy, crooked, like he wasn’t sure if he’d won or lost something—she didn’t scowl.

She didn’t smile either.

She just kept walking.

But she didn’t throw the box away.

And that, Caleb thought quietly to himself, was enough.

For now.

//

The training hall was loud.

Boots slapped against the mat in steady rhythm. Instructions barked from across the floor. The sharp exhale of breath, the thud of contact, the clatter of weapons training—all of it unlike the pristine medical bay she’s now used to. But she was here and it’s chaotic all the same. She doesn’t have to stay for long though. 

Only for a moment.

A clipboard in hand, a slim box of gauze, disinfectants, and painkillers tucked under one arm. She moved along the edge of the training facility like a shadow, trying not to draw attention to herself.

She was here on assignment. Nothing more. One of the newer medics had radioed in that the first aid cart stationed here was running low—someone split their knuckle open again, probably. She was just the delivery girl today.

At least, that’s what she told herself.

She was halfway to the cart when a voice broke through the noise like a golden chord strummed directly into her chest.

“Hey!”

She paused.

Caleb was already jogging toward her—fast, light on his feet, as if he’d been waiting for this moment all day.

Damp hair clung to his forehead, his face flushed from exertion, body gleaming with sweat under the training hall lights. His sleeveless shirt stuck to his chest and sides like a second skin, every muscle shifting fluidly beneath the fabric—alive, coiled, unignorable.

When he finally stopped in front of her, he dragged a hand through his hair, sweeping the wet strands back and revealing the full line of his forehead. It should have been nothing. Mundane. But it wasn’t. It looked good on him—unfairly good—and it was infinitely worse when his arm lifted and his bicep flexed with the motion, taut and prominent, slick with sweat and framed in the kind of lighting that belonged in a sinfully specific kind of daydream.

She didn’t react.

Or at least, she made sure she didn’t look like she did.

Stone-faced, she fixed her gaze slightly to the left of him, her inner voice droning through nursing protocol like a litany of survival: check airway, assess vitals, administer fluids if systolic drops below ninety—

Anything. Anything to stop herself from staring. Or imagining how it would feel to run her hands along that stupidly sculpted arm. Or thinking about the warm, heady scent of him—salt and skin and something just his.

No. Absolutely not.

Focus.

Maintain a sterile field. Reassess in fifteen-minute intervals. Chart all irregularities.

God, she needed to leave. 

“Look who finally came to visit.” he grinned, practically bouncing on his heels. If he had a tail, it would’ve been wagging (she can almost see it).

She stared at him, unimpressed. “I’m not here for you.”

“I know,” he said, eyes crinkling, cocky and sweet all at once. “But let me pretend for a second.”

She rolled her eyes and turned away, striding toward the cart in question, kneeling beside it. Her fingers worked quickly, restocking the sterile supplies like muscle memory. But she could feel him. Still watching her. Still smiling.

“You should do this more often” he muses, sauntering a little closer, not quite crowding her, but there . Warm and persistent like late afternoon sun. “Dropping by just to check on me.”

“I’m literally restocking painkillers,” she replied, expression deadpan.

“Exactly,” he said. “You knew I’d be the cause of pain.”

She didn’t dignify that with a response. Her hand paused over the antiseptics, her grip a little tighter than necessary.

He let out a chuckle, soft and low, before stepping back toward his group. “Alright, alright. I’ll let you work.”

And just like that, he turned away.

She should’ve done her work quickly and left even quicker. But her body didn’t listen to her mind.

Instead, she stood there—stocking forgotten, clipboard tucked to her chest— watching .

Her eyes tracked the way Caleb moved. Controlled. Fluid. Every step was measured power. When he dropped low into a defensive stance, muscles along his back coiled and released like something practiced, honed. His shoulders rippled with movement, slick with sweat. Every time he twisted to dodge, every strike he threw, his arms flexed, veins rising to the surface. Strong. Calloused. Fast.

Too fast. Too handsome. Too much.

Her throat tightened. She swallowed. There was something intoxicating about seeing him like this and God , she hated that it got to her.

Hated how her eyes traced the sweat trailing down his temple, slipping along his jaw and dripping to the hollow of his throat. Hated how her breath caught when he wiped his face with the hem of his shirt, revealing a flash of toned stomach—tight and defined in the way you only earned through repetition and war. His hips curved lean into the draw of his pants. She didn’t mean to look that far.

She bit the inside of her cheek, then her lower lip—just slightly. Just once.

Of course he had to look like that now , when she was supposed to be avoiding him. When she’d spent weeks trying to un-feel everything she’d once drowned in.

It wasn’t fair. That he could be cruel, and then soft. That he could forget their past, treat her like she was nothing, and still make her feel like she was standing too close to a fire she never asked to love.

She exhaled slowly, eyes drifting up again.

He’d moved into sparring now. His punches landed with the sharp snap of force meeting flesh. Every hit tightened his arms, carved definition deeper into the grooves of his torso. Sweat flung off his jaw with each pivot. His legs were quick and brutal, stabilizing his frame like pillars carved from stone. Focused. Intense.

And beautiful.

She couldn’t even look away.

“Thanks,” a voice said beside her, breaking her daze.

She blinked.

It was the nurse stationed in the training wing. Mid-twenties, kind-faced, holding the now-full first aid tray. “You’re all good. I’ll take it from here.”

She nodded, once, too fast. “Right.”

Her fingers were stiff as she handed over the rest of the supplies. She turned to go. Didn’t look back.

Not even when Caleb called out to her between rounds, his voice teasing and hopeful.

“You sure you’re not here for me?”

She didn’t answer.

Didn’t need to.

Because later—when she closed the medbay door behind her, alone again—she could still feel the weight of his body in motion.

The heat of his stare.

The ache he left blooming beneath her ribs like something she didn’t know how to name anymore.

Something she wasn’t ready to forgive.

But couldn’t stop wanting.

//

By the time she finishes her skincare routine, the world has shrunk to something manageable.

There’s comfort in it—in the soft rhythm of practiced motion, in the cold press of a jade roller against flushed cheeks, in the quiet ritual of caring for herself when no one else can. She tucks a strand of damp hair behind her ear and catches her reflection. Calm. Controlled. Composed.

She slips into her nightgown—a satin thing, pale against her skin, cool and clinging—and moves toward her bed. The sheets are freshly changed. The fan hums gently above her.

She closes her eyes.

The dream blooms without warning.

She’s back in the training hall. Dimly lit, quieter than it was this morning, the overhead lights low and hazy like a memory. There’s the smell of sweat in the air, the low thud of fists against a bag, and the metallic glint of polished equipment in the periphery.

Why was she here again?

Then she sees him. Caleb.

Half-lit in the haze, all long lines and raw strength, sweat sheening his skin in a flush of light. His training shirt sticks to him like it’s been painted on, soaked and clinging to the flex of his back, the powerful slope of his chest. His forearms are bare, pink from effort, veins like rivulets under skin. His biceps catch the light with every jab, cords of muscle tightening and releasing like coiled springs.

She watches, breath stilling in her chest.

He looks like he’s been carved by the dream itself—sharp, flushed, almost too vivid to be real. His skin is lightly tanned from hours in the sun, but flushed now, blushing along his neck, across his collarbones, down the swell of his arms where exertion has left him warm and glowing and alive.

And then he sees her.

She feels it before it happens—the way his attention shifts, latches onto her with all the subtlety of a spotlight. He jogs toward her, grinning like he’s just won something.

“Look who finally came to visit me,” he says just like earlier, bright-eyed, voice low and warm and far too pleased.

She crosses her arms automatically. “I’m not here for you.”

“I know,” he says, not missing a beat. “But let me pretend, just for tonight.”

He’s teasing. Of course he is. But his eyes say something else. Something softer. Something hotter.

She realizes then—it’s a dream. That’s all it is. A stupid, hormone-fueled dream. A trap sprung by a mind too tired to fight anymore. Which means none of this is real. Not the training hall. Not the tension.

Not Caleb, standing in front of her, flushed and grinning, chest heaving as he wipes sweat off his brow with the hem of his shirt—accidentally or not, revealing a stretch of stomach so criminal she wants to slap her subconscious for being this unholy.

“Jesus Christ,” she mutters under her breath.

“Careful,” Caleb says, like he heard her. “You look like you’re about to pounce.”

She scowls. “In your dreams.”

He steps closer. Too close.

His voice drops low—hushed and velvety, threaded with that familiar lilt of mischief, but beneath it, there’s something breathier. Warmer. Like he’s teasing her only because he doesn’t know how else to ask to be touched. 

“This is your dream,” he murmurs, head tilting.

And she hates him. God, she hates him.

Not just because of what he did. Not just because of who he was. But because he’s standing here, all infuriating muscle and mischief, looking at her like he’s been starved for centuries and she’s his first and final meal. 

Because she wants him. Wants to touch him.

And now… now she can .

Her hand lifts on instinct, hesitating midair.

She shouldn’t. She really, really shouldn’t.

But this isn’t real. This isn’t really him. This is just a dream.

So her fingers close the distance. She presses her palm to his chest. His skin is hot and damp beneath her hand, alive with heat. His heart beats hard under her touch, strong and unrelenting. Her thumb brushes a drop of sweat clinging to his collarbone, and her breath stutters, sharp in her throat. 

He still doesn’t move. Just watches her. But his eyes—

They’re not on her eyes anymore. They’ve dropped.

Fixed on her lips.

And the way he’s looking—like he’s starved for something he’s convinced he can’t have—it’s unbearable. Hunger and restraint drawn tight across every line of his face. His lips part slightly, like he’s about to say something, or maybe he’s trying to stop himself from leaning in.

Her heart pounds now, too         .

Is that how Caleb watched her all along? Was this gaze—this blistering, hungry stare—the one he wore when he looked at her? Or was this just her brain playing dress-up with scraps of what it remembered? Old memory card scenes. The way his avatar looked at MC in-game when they stood too close.

She doesn’t like either possibility. One makes her ache. The other makes her feel stupid.

But right now, all she can feel is the weight of his gaze and the heat blooming low in her stomach.

His eyes are still locked on her lips and it’s killing her.

She drags her fingers slowly down the ridge of his bicep, feeling every twitch, every flex under her touch. She traces the taut line of muscle, the slight tremble that answers her pressure. Her throat is dry. Her lips part.

“You’re so—” she starts, then stops, helpless.

“So what?” Caleb says, voice like sin and sunshine.

“Annoying,” she mutters, and he laughs.

The air thickens. A wall materializes behind her—one of those dream impossibilities. Caleb leans in, both arms braced on either side of her head. He cages her in, but not like a trap—more like a dare. 

“You gonna push me away?” he asks, soft, smug.

She should.

But she doesn’t.

Because here, in this place her brain conjured against her will, there are no consequences. She can pretend that the heavy history between them didn’t exist. No scars. No betrayal.  No past to unravel her resolve.

No bruises left by misplaced trust. 

Just this moment.

Just him .

Her back is flush against the wall now, caught in the cage of his arms—one hand planted beside her head, the other resting just above her shoulder, palm splayed against painted concrete. His chest almost touches hers. 

He’s close enough that she can feel the heat of his bicep beside her cheek, can see the way it flexes with the slightest shift of his weight. Her eyes flicker to it. Then to his throat. His collarbone. The deep dip of muscle leading down past the edge of fabric.

And it’s driving her insane.

Her fingers twitch at her sides, aching to move. And before she can stop herself, she does—hand sliding up the front of his shirt, palm dragging slow over his chest. He’s impossibly warm. His skin thrums with tension under her touch, and her breath hitches at the solid feel of him.  Her other hand lifts, hesitant at first, then bolder—fingertips skimming over his stomach, the defined edges of his torso. Her pulse is pounding in her ears.

Caleb leans in, just a little. Enough that his breath ghosts over her lips.
Her eyes flutter half-closed. Her chest rises and falls shallowly against his.

One of his arms drops lower, caging her in tighter, forearm pressed near her waist now. Their bodies not quite touching, but the space between them sizzles with the threat of contact. She’s trapped, but it doesn’t feel like prison. It feels like surrender.

“You sure you want this?” he asks, barely above a whisper. There’s mischief in it, but also something else—something shaky and real beneath the tease.

She answers without words.

She leans in.

So does he.

Their mouths are a heartbeat apart. The air between them is thick—electric. Her fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, pulling slightly. She can taste the promise of him already. The inevitability of something long denied, finally, finally about to break.

And then—

She wakes up with a jolt.

Sheets tangled around her hips. Her chest rising and falling too fast. Her nightgown clinging to her thighs. One hand fisted in the pillow beside her. The air too hot.

She stares at the ceiling, heart hammering.

“No,” she whispers into the silence. “No, no, no.”

Her palm still burns with phantom heat. Her lips still tingle.

She curses.

Because she’d almost kissed him. Because he hadn’t done a damn thing except exist in her dream—sweaty and smiling and leaning in like he could make it all better with one kiss—and she’d folded like paper.

This wasn’t fair.

He had no right to haunt her like this.

She drags a hand down her face. 

“Goddamn it.”

It would almost be easier if he were still the man who glared at her from across the medical bay floor, words like barbed wire coiled behind his teeth, telling her to disappear. If he were still that Caleb—haunted, angry, so determined to push her away and condemn her. 

If he were still that Caleb who looked at her with guilt in his eyes, looking at her so broken and apologizing for everything he’s ever done while knowing it’s not enough. 

But no, this Caleb smiled at her like he had never looked at her with disdain. Like he wasn’t molded through a harsh metal compactor of a childhood. This Caleb was brighter and open. He smiles as if he has no weight to carry.

And her? She was going along with it. Bit by bit. Like a fool.

Because it was so much easier to fall into the current when it flowed gently. So much easier to believe in the kindness he showed now than to drag herself back into the sharp, bloody past.

She took a breath. Then another. But the air didn’t feel clean in her lungs. The room felt small. Constricting. Like the walls were closing in.

She stood abruptly and grabbed the first cardigan draped across the chair. It was oversized, hung on her like a dress, sleeves brushing past her knuckles. She wrapped it around herself and padded to the door. 

She needed to get out just for a moment to breathe. She needs to see the stars. 

//

The night was colder than she expected, the kind of cold that slips through the sleeves and finds the skin beneath. 

She paused when she saw him.

A lone figure stood at the far edge of the courtyard, silhouetted beneath the stars. Still, unmoving. The soft silver of moonlight caught the shape of his profile. The wind combed through his hair, gently, like it didn’t dare disturb him.

Caleb.

His head was tilted to the sky. Shoulders relaxed. Chest rising and falling in a slow, even rhythm that looked like peace— felt like it. He wasn’t wearing anything warm, just a thin, short-sleeved shirt one would use for sleeping. The fabric rippled faintly in the breeze. There was something unearthly about him like this, haloed by starlight and shadows. As if the sky had invited him up, but he’d decided to stay earthbound just a little longer.

She should go back. Now , before he noticed.

But her eyes drifted upward. The stars— bright , scattered like diamonds. Brighter than they usually were. Closer. Maybe it was Skyhaven, maybe the altitude, or maybe the universe had just chosen tonight to make them shine.

Her fingers reached for her wrist out of habit. The space where that worn strip of fabric used to rest. The one she never used to take off. 

It wasn’t there.

Right. She had taken it off.

She looked at him again.

And that’s when she saw the tears.

At first, she wasn’t sure. The wind played tricks at this hour, and the moonlight glimmered where it shouldn’t. But no—those were tears, slipping down his cheeks, unhurried and unashamed. He still looked soft. Still looked calm.

But his brows were faintly drawn, lips parted like he’d been caught off guard by his own unraveling. As if he didn’t understand why he was crying either.

She should leave.

But her body was already moving. Stupid, stupid self.

The grass was cool beneath her feet. The night wrapped around her, a hush of silence. And she heard her own voice before she meant to speak:

"What are you doing?"

He turned. And she saw it then. The way his eyes lit up. Like he had been waiting for her. Like he was happy she was here. 

Her breath hitched.

That expression, hopeful and surprised all at once, like she was something he thought he’d never see again, it undid her. It made her wish she had never come outside. And it made her wish she always had.

She didn’t know what to do with it. With him . There was too much between them. And too much missing at the same time.

But still she stood there, caught in the moment like gravity had shifted its pull—not to the earth, but to him . And the stars above, in all their distant brilliance, seemed to echo the ache inside her chest. 

Caleb wipes his cheeks quickly, like he could erase the evidence if he just smiled fast enough.

“I couldn’t sleep,” he says, casual—too casual for someone who’d just been crying under the stars.

Then, softer, his voice falling into something closer to honest, “Looking up at the ceiling of my room feels the same as looking up at the ceiling when I first woke up in the medbay.”

He exhales, gaze lifting again to the sky. “Somehow I ended up here. I thought it’d feel good.” A pause. His throat works around the words. “But I don’t know why I started crying.”

She stays quiet.

The last time they’d stood here together, it had ended in sharp words and wounded silence. She should be the one crying now, not him. Not when she still carries the burn of every terrible thing that had been said under this sky. But it’s her who came out first this time. It’s her who spoke.

And now, all she wants is to undo it.

The silence stretches long, too long. Thick with things unsaid. But Caleb doesn’t seem to mind. He looks at her, still smiling gently despite her cold expression. Like he sees something warm in her even when she refuses to show it.

“What about you?” he asks. “What brings you out here?”

She doesn’t want to answer. But the words come anyway. Fractured. Bare.

“I had a… nightmare.” That wasn’t exactly a lie.

Before he can react, a soft plip hits the stone. Then another. Then another.

Rain begins to fall—light at first, scattered and tender. The sky grumbling above like it hadn’t made up its mind.

She shifts, ready to turn away, to walk back inside and leave this awkward scene behind. But his fingers close gently around her wrist.

She tenses.

He doesn’t pull hard. Just enough to stop her. Just enough to draw her a little closer.

And then a rush of heavy rain pours down—but not on them.

They’re dry. A shimmer of translucent light curves above them in a dome, glinting like glass in the storm. Caleb’s evol. A barrier, perfect and seamless.

He lets out a quiet breath, visibly relieved. “I’m so glad that worked,” he says, like he’s testing a new trick. “We should head back inside.”

He looks at her, eyes bright under the rain-filtered starlight. Like this was the first time. And in his mind, it is.

She looks up at him, expression unreadable still but her eyes were probably a storm as large as the one brewing around them.

Then she shakes his hand off.

“Why do you keep approaching me?” she asks. Her voice isn’t angry. It’s just tired. Fragile at the edges.

He doesn’t retreat.

Instead, he lifts his hand again, this time slower, more careful. His fingers reach for hers, brushing her fingertips, and when she doesn’t pull away, he just… stays there. Their hands not quite joined. Not quite apart.

His skin is cold. From the night. From the weight of memory—or the lack of it.

She doesn’t know which is worse.

“You’re just confusing me with someone else,” she says, words tumbling now. Quiet, frantic. “You don’t remember her. But once you do, you’ll regret giving your attention to me like this.”

His brow furrows, mouth parting like he wants to protest.

But she’s still speaking. Still unraveling.

“You probably think I’m her , but you don’t know what I did. What we did. How broken it all was. You forgot, Caleb. You forgot everything .”

She laughs, but it’s hollow. A sound carved out of pain.

“You smile like you’re—like nothing ever went wrong between us, and it’s not fair . Because if you remembered even half of what happened between us, you’d never— never —look at me that way again.”

Her shoulders shake, but she won’t cry. Not in front of him. Not when he looks at her with eyes that know nothing of the person she really is to him.

His brows pull together. He looks down at their half-held hands. Then at her.

“I don’t think you’re anyone else,” he says softly. “I think I like you. You , standing in front of me right now.”

She flinches. The words hit too close, too carelessly tender.

“You don’t know me.”

He doesn't look away. His voice, when he speaks again, is quieter. Earnest. Carved straight from the ache in his chest.

“Then tell me. Please.”

His hand finds hers again—gentle, steady—and he brings it to his chest, pressing it there like a promise. Beneath her palm, his heartbeat thuds against her skin. Too fast. Too hard. Too real.

“Let me know what happened between us,” he murmurs, voice trembling just slightly at the edges. “You tell me my feelings aren’t real—but they’re here . I feel strongly about you.”

His hand settles over hers, fingers sliding between her own in a slow interlace, as if he’s terrified she’ll pull away. But she doesn’t.

“So please,” he continues, eyes searching hers with that same unguarded openness that makes her want to scream, “I’m sorry for hurting you—but I would like to make up for it. Knowing what exactly I’m sorry for. Give me a chance.”

The sincerity in his face is enough to make her breath catch.

His eyes don’t plead. They hope.

And that’s so much worse.

Because Caleb has always hurt her in ways no one else could. But this was new, by forgetting the pain, by stripping away the history and offering her a clean slate that isn’t clean at all.

Her hand twitches beneath his. She can feel the wild rhythm of his pulse still pounding beneath her palm. She hates how familiar that heartbeat feels.

She hates that it still calls to her.

And she hates most of all that she wants to believe him.

She looks up.

At the stars.

They’re painfully bright tonight—scattered across the sky like shattered glass, burning with the kind of beauty that only exists when you’re already breaking.

Dear God.

Please don’t let her fall even further than this.

Chapter Text

“You know what you remind me of?”

Caleb tilts his head, eyes bright with mischief and something softer just beneath it, studying her like he’s memorizing every flicker of her reaction.

The med bay is quiet this hour, lit in soft golden strips overhead, sterile and still except for the occasional beeping from distant machines and the quiet shuffle of a nurse or two at the far end. She’s at the front desk, clipboard in hand, halfway through documenting blood work for a patient in Recovery. The usual sanitized smell in the air is mixed now with the soft, subtle sweetness of a lunch he just dropped off—neatly packed, like always.

Like he knows exactly when she’ll be here.

She doesn’t need to look up to know it’s him. It’s always him lately. Like he has a built-in radar that pings the moment she’s assigned to front desk. He always shows up around this time when she’s on desk duty. Drops off food. Lingers. Smiles like the world never broke between them.

She hasn’t seen him in three days. Not since that night in the courtyard. Not since she walked away from him standing there, hand still hovering in the air like he didn’t understand why it hurt so much just to be seen by him.

She’d hoped he’d stop after that. That he’d take the hint. That he’d finally let her slip back into the safety of silence and walls and clinical professionalism.

But no. Of course not.

He came back like it’s inevitable, like he didn’t know how to do anything but return.

And worse, he’s radiant today. Skin flushed faintly pink at the cheeks, like he’d just come from training. The sleeves of his hoodie are pushed to his elbows, exposing the lean strength in his forearms, the delicate scattering of new scars and calluses on his fingers. His hair is messier than usual—wind-tossed and stubbornly pretty—and when he grins like that, she feels something traitorous inside her slip.

She doesn’t meet his gaze. Not right away. She finishes the last word on her form, clicks her pen closed, and finally— finally —says, “Do I want to know?”

“Strawberry shortcake.”

She blinks, lifting her eyes now, slow and suspicious. “What?”

“You’re shorter than me,” Caleb says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Sweet when you want to be, but there’s that sharp little tang if someone’s not careful.”

He leans slightly on the desk, forearms braced as his grin turns downright impish.

“So yeah. Shortcake. It suits you.”

Her mouth opens, then closes. She blinks once, twice.

“That is the dumbest nickname I’ve ever heard.”

“I think it’s perfect,” he says, maddeningly pleased with himself.

She scowls, but it lacks venom. Because she’s tired, and she’s soft where he’s concerned, even when she doesn’t want to be. Even when she shouldn’t be. And the worst part is— he knows . She can see it in the sparkle of his eyes, in the way he watches her like he’s already won something.

He leans in a little more, close but not quite crossing the invisible line she’s drawn between them. But the shift in distance is enough that she catches the faint scent of his soap—fresh, warm, faintly woodsy.

“Don’t call me that,” she mutters, but it’s weak, hollow. There’s no bite in her bark anymore.

“But it’s cute.”

“It’s not.”

“Try and stop me, s hortcake .”

And the way he says it— God . It’s low and smooth and amused, but there’s a lazy intimacy threaded through the word now, like he’s rolling the taste of her on his tongue. Like the syllables themselves are something he’s savoring.

Something he wants .

She turns back to her notes with too much purpose, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up the back of her neck. Her grip on her pen tightens, as if it might anchor her to reality. But it’s slipping—just like she always does around him. Every. Damn. Time.

Then he leans in just a touch more, his voice a hush of silk near her ear, just warm enough to send a shiver skimming her spine.

“Careful,” Caleb murmurs, “keep looking so cute when you’re mad, and I might start thinking I have a chance.”

Her fingers twitch around her pen. The coil in her stomach pulls tight, wound hot and tense. “You’re impossible.”

“You like it.”

He leans back at last, giving her space, and the absence is a loss . She hates how her body immediately misses the heat of his presence. How it already wants him close again.

She does like it. Likes him . Loves him.

She shouldn’t. But she does.

It’s funny, really, how dangerously easy it is to fall into this Caleb’s pace—playful, open, all sunlight and soft flirtation. He doesn’t look at her with the icy sharpness that used to pin her in place. There’s no weight behind his stare, no hint of anger or betrayal. Just… light. A boyish sort of hope.

It’s infuriating. It’s unfair .

Because if she still loved the Caleb who looked at her with that cruel glint in his eye—who kept her away, used his Evol to make sure she never got too close, who held guilt like a blade between them—then what more now that he’s like this. How easier  even  though it’s wrong. This Caleb who makes her crave the sound of his laugh or the curve of his mouth when he teased her.

This Caleb smiles at her like she’s the best part of his day.

This one flirts and packs her lunch and calls her shortcake in a voice that’s far too warm.

God help her heart because this Caleb makes her want to give in despite knowing this isn’t really him, not completely. 

She dares to glance at him out of the corner of her eye. He’s watching her again, chin in hand, smiling like he knows exactly what he’s doing.

And she’s doomed.

//

Her day off feels like a breath of fresh air—literally. Skyhaven’s sky is vast and open, real and endless. The air is crisp, the wind rushing through the spaces between high-rises, tugging at her hair and carrying the faint hum of city life below. It’s the kind of day that makes her want to just exist, no weight of duty, no lingering shadows of the past.

“You have to try this.” Mira, insists, pushing a skewer of candied fruit toward her. The two of them wander through the bustling shopping district, weaving between people carrying bright shopping bags, their laughter and conversations blending into the lively atmosphere. It’s nice. A break from the medical halls of the fleet, from injuries and reports and the suffocating presence of him.

She takes a bite, the syrupy glaze cracking under her teeth, and hums. “Not bad.”

Mira grins. “Not bad? That’s Skyhaven’s best tanghulu! You need to expand your standards.”

She chews thoughtfully, letting her gaze drift across the street, past the rows of sleek storefronts and cafés, past the enormous digital display cycling through the latest headlines.

The streets of Skyhaven are alive with movement, the air rich with the scent of street food and the low hum of city chatter. It’s a nice change. It’s been awhile since she went out and about since the cafe incident and she thought she would’ve been scared to step out. Thankfully, the feeling of freedom and the open-air still brings her comfort. 

Mira is mid-rant about something, probably a patient who tried to flirt with her while high on painkillers—when she feels the impact. Solid. Unyielding. She stumbles slightly as her shoulder collides with someone, the unexpected force making her take a step back. "Oh, shit—sorry—" She looks up and immediately forgets how to breathe.

The man she bumped into barely moves, like he’s more an immovable object than a person. He’s tall, hair jet black, dressed in the sleek black-and-blue uniform of the fleet’s elite pilots, the fabric crisp, the insignia on his shoulder gleaming under the city lights. He looks every bit like he belongs—except he doesn’t . Because she knows who he is. His hair is black but she’s sure it’s him. 

Sylus.

Leader of Onychinus. Skyhaven’s most wanted man. Well, every organization’s most wanted man.

He shouldn’t be here. He really shouldn’t be here.

His sharp gaze flickers over her with nothing more than idle curiosity before shifting away, like she’s just another passerby. "All good," he says, voice smooth, low. Casual. Too casual.

Mira, who had been stuffing her face with a skewer of grilled meat, suddenly freezes. Then, under her breath, she mutters, "Oh my god." 

Oh, shit.

She panics for a second—does Mira recognize him? Is she about to freak out? Does she have to physically drag her friend out of here before things get bad?

But then Mira leans in closer, eyes locked on him like she’s just discovered the greatest secret of the universe. "How the hell have I never seen him on base before?" she whispers. "There’s no way I missed someone that hot. "

... Oh.

Oh, this is worse .

She risks another glance at Sylus. He still doesn’t seem particularly interested in them, though his gaze lingers on her just a second longer than necessary before he nods and moves past them.

Mira immediately turns to her, gripping her arm like she’s about to shake her. "Did you see that?" She swallows, forces a tight-lipped smile. "Yeah. Saw it."

Mira groans dramatically. "God, I need to start paying more attention in the hangars. What if I missed my fated encounter? That man is beautiful. "

Her smile doesn’t waver, but her mind is screaming. Mira, that man is a walking war crime.

Her heart pounds as she dares another glance over her shoulder—Sylus is already disappearing into the crowd, blending in too easily despite the stolen uniform. And then her eyes flick upwards. And she almost chokes.

Because there, on the massive LED screen above them, is a WANTED poster. Sylus’s wanted poster. His actual face, silver hair and all, staring down at the street below like some cruel joke from the universe itself.

She forces herself to breathe, turns away, and locks eyes with Mira. "You really should pay more attention." Because if Mira had been paying attention, she'd realize she's better off rewriting fate. That her “ fated encounter” is worth almost a billion credits in bounty money. 

//

The base feels colder after Skyhaven.

Not in temperature—but in atmosphere. Gone are the golden lights and the layered warmth of the city’s chaos, the laughter, the vibrant haze, the wind tangling her hair as she walked through open-air markets that smelled of sugar and smoke. Now, there's only the white hum of overhead lights, sleek corridors, and the echo of distant footsteps on polished floors.

She walks beside Mira in silence, still carrying the ghost of that moment. Sylus. In the flesh. That’s something she didn’t think she would ever see. His presence was so strong. 

Mira, meanwhile, is electric beside her, bursting with enough energy to power the entire med bay.

“Okay,” Mira says, voice rising with the enthusiasm of a girl who’s just discovered a new religion, “but tell me why no one told me the fleet had a literal Greek god in uniform?” She throws her hands up, spinning on her heel with all the drama of a stage performance. “Tall. Black hair. Looked like he could kill a man with a stare—and honestly? I would’ve thanked him.”

Then you'd have to thank him so many times, Mira.

But she doesn't say that out loud. She doesn’t answer. She can’t. Because Mira doesn’t know that the man she’s describing is a walking international incident. Every time she thinks of Sylus’s eyes, she feels the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

They’re turning the corner, and—

“Oh, perfect!” Mira exclaims, snatching her by the elbow.

And just like that, it's too late. They round the bend in the hallway and come face-to-face with Caleb and Gideon.

Caleb’s leaning casually against the wall, water bottle half-drained in one hand, dark shirt clinging to his chest from training. His hair was damp and pushed back, exposing his forehead. His skin is flushed with the heat of recent exertion. There’s a relaxed slant to his posture, the corner of his mouth lifted in a smile as Gideon murmurs something that makes him laugh, teeth flashing in that rare, easy way he only smiles when he is with people he cares about. She’s been seeing that way too often these days.

Gideon notices them first, eyes lighting up. “Hey, hey. Back from your day off?”

Before she can speak, Mira charges forward like a comet.

“Yes—and you won’t believe who I ran into,” she gushes, waving both hands before zeroing in like a targeting system. “Do you guys know someone in the fighter pilots with jet black hair, tall, extremely handsome and well built, with piercing eyes?”

Gideon lifts an eyebrow, taken aback. “Hello to you too…and you just described almost every pilot we have.”

Caleb’s head tilts slightly, amused confusion painting his expression. “Black hair?”

“Like obsidian,” Mira declares, clasping her hands like she’s reciting poetry. “Eyes like knives. Jaw line so sharp it looked like it could cut someone. I swear I’ve never seen him around before, but I think I saw heaven. Or war. Or both.”

Caleb’s brows draw slightly together, not really paying attention but his eyes are on her . 

She doesn’t look at him. She focuses on the seam of her bag strap, thumb rubbing along the edge as if she can scrub the tension out of her skin.

Mira turns to her eagerly. “He was so hot, right?”

Her breath catches. She dares a glance toward Caleb—just for a second—and he’s already looking at her. As if he’s waiting.

“Yeah,” she says. One word. Airy. Casual.

But she feels it like a drop in a still pond—the ripple of it passing through the space between them. Caleb’s smile falters. Barely. But she sees it.

Gideon, oblivious, hums. “Maybe he’s one of those test pilots. You know, the guys who rotate in from time to time when they’re cycling out the new stealth models?”

“I hope he rotates in more often,” Mira breathes, dreamy.

She tries not to visibly wince. “I’m sure he’ll show up again,” she mutters, low. She doubts it. 

There’s a silence that follows—loud am weighted. Caleb’s no longer smiling. His posture has shifted, slightly stiffer. Like someone just closed a window and let in a chill.

She can feel him watching her, even now. His gaze was filled with that silent ache he always wears when he wants to ask something but can’t. Or won’t.

“Anyway,” she says, and the word comes out sharper than she intended, “we should get going.”

Mira groans. “Ugh. Right. Early shift tomorrow.”

They turn to leave—her steps faster than they need to be. She’s not even sure where she’s walking, only that she needs to move. Before she looks back. Before—

“Hey.”

The word is soft. Almost unsure.

She freezes.

Fingers close gently around her wrist. 

“Shortcake,” She frowns at the nickname. 

“Leaving so soon?” Caleb’s voice is low, careful. It hits like an overripe apple falling from the tree—heavy, quiet, and inevitable.

A soft sound that still startles.

She turns slowly. His eyes meet hers, and this close, she can see it. The flicker of vulnerability behind the calm. The subtle drop in his brow, the way his thumb brushes just once across the inside of her wrist.

“Did you really mean it?” he asks, voice low and cautious, as if the words might shatter on the way out.

She blinks, caught off guard by the quiet vulnerability in his tone. “What?”

“That he was hot.” Huh?

There’s a beat of silence that stretches long and tight between them. Her pulse stumbles.

He has no right to ask her that, she thinks bitterly. None. And part of her wants to say it aloud. Wants to tilt her chin, lock her jaw, and say, Yes. He was hot. Insanely hot. The kind of guy women write terrible poetry about.

She wants to watch the words hit him, wants to see that flicker of wounded pride. 

But then she looks at him. 

She turns to him fully now, and it’s almost comical, how much he looks like a kicked puppy trying to make his case. There’s something plaintive in his eyes—not quite hurt, not quite angry, just… pouty. In that frustrating, ridiculously charming way of his. His brows are drawn together, lower lip slightly pushed out, and she’s half-convinced that if he had a tail, it’d be tucked between his legs right now. It’s the kind of look that says I’m upset, but I’m trying really hard to be good about it. Look at me being good. Please reward me. 

And whatever venom she was building in her throat evaporates.

It’s absurd. And effective. Stupidly effective.

She hates that he knows how to do this—how to aim his gaze with the precision of a missile and make it land right in her softest parts. The worst part is, it doesn’t even feel calculated. He probably doesn’t realize he’s doing it. Maybe or maybe not. He’s just... being Caleb. He would’ve not had the audacity to act cute like this if he had all his memories intact. And for better or worse, she realizes that she’s weak to this side of him.

Her voice is small. Honest. “I wasn’t paying attention.”

His eyes widen a little, something unspoken flickering behind them—something like relief, like victory, like sunshine cracking through clouds. Something unknots in his shoulders. A flicker of a smile ghosts across his mouth—not triumphant, not smug. Just relieved .

“I see,” he murmurs, almost to himself.

But then, just as the moment seems poised to pass, he pauses. His fingers are still loosely wrapped around her wrist, his touch warm, hesitant. His gaze lifts again, searching her face with something deeper—something quieter.

“Then… what do you think about me?” he asks, voice soft but rough at  the same time. It’s the kind of question that feels both bold and painfully vulnerable, like he’s baring something raw and unsure beneath all that usual charm. There’s no teasing in it. 

For a second, it feels like the world has narrowed to this one sliver of space between them—just heartbeats and breath and questions too heavy to answer cleanly.

She wants to run. She wants to scream.

She wants to touch his face and kiss his mouth and hurt him all at once.

“I need to go,” she says. Quiet. Final.

She gently slips her wrist from his hand. He doesn’t stop her—but he doesn’t let go right away either. His fingers linger for a heartbeat more, brushing against her skin as they fall away, as if even in parting, he wants to savor every moment he can of her.

“I’ll see you around,” he says, softer now, gazing at her back.

She doesn’t look back.

But as she walks away, she doesn’t feel the cold of the base anymore. She only feels the echo of his touch on her skin—warm, aching, impossibly gentle.

//

:D

Chapter Text

Her room feels smaller tonight.

She lies on her back, staring at the ceiling, trying—failing—to will herself into stillness.

Her wrist still tingles where his hand had closed around it. The phantom heat lingers, stubborn as a bruise, like her body is unwilling to let go of the memory.

What do you think about me?

The words loop in her mind, unrelenting. A simple question. Ridiculously simple. And yet it warms her until it burns, aches until it hollows her out. 

Because the truth is merciless. She doesn’t know how to separate the two versions of him.

There is this Caleb. The one whose eyes are clear and unwavering, who looks at her like she’s not just seen but understood. This Caleb doesn’t flinch from vulnerability; he stands in it, bares it with a kind of reckless honesty that disarms her. 

She wants to fall into that gaze, to pull him close and melt into the safety it promises. She wants to stop thinking that he’s only that way because he doesn’t remember everything between them.

But then there is the other Caleb. 

The Caleb who looked at her with scorn sharp enough to slice her in two. The Caleb whose guilt afterward was just as heavy, pressing her into the ground until she could hardly breathe. 

That Caleb had left her raw. That Caleb had made her question what any of it was for—what he was for.

The Caleb she still loved, regardless of his demons and the decisions he'd made that left her in pieces . 

She closes her eyes, the ceiling blurring into the shadowed dark.

She doesn’t know which one she’d be left with if— when —his memories return. Will he look at her the way he did tonight, with hope trembling just beneath the surface? Or will he look at her like before, like she’s the sharp edge of his regret?

Her hand drifts almost unconsciously to the bracelet on her wrist. The familiar braid is rough beneath her fingertips, worn soft in certain places from years of touch.

She fiddles with it until the fibers dig faintly into her skin, grounding her.

She clings to it because she has to, because otherwise she’ll reach for him. 

She’ll be greedy.

She wants to reach out. To bridge the space that feels both infinite and dangerously thin between them. 

The urge to press her fingers against his jaw, to trace the curve of his cheekbone, to tell him that she does think about him—that she always has, in ways she never asked for—is so strong it steals the breath from her lungs.

But what then? What happens when his memory comes back and sweeps away the tenderness of tonight? Will he look at her with regret again? Will this bright version of him, the one who wears his longing like it’s his only shield, vanish the moment the past returns?

She presses the heel of her palm against her eyes until sparks dance in the darkness. She doesn’t want to be weak like this. Doesn’t want to give in because she knows. 

At the end of it all, she’ll be left behind.

Again.

//

The medical bay is quieter than usual when he shows up. Midday lull. Only a handful of patients, most of the nurses catching up on paperwork or inventory.

She’s sorting supplies at her station, eyes fixed on the neat rows of vials and gauze, when the soft scrape of boots on tile announces him.

She doesn’t look up because she already knows it’s him by the way the air itself shifts when he enters, as though the room has to make space for him, as though he walks with a kind of quiet gravity that tugs at her whether she wants it to or not.

“Brought reinforcements,” he says lightly. His voice is warm and teasing, like he’s already been smiling before reaching her. 

She glances up to see him leaning casually against the counter, lunch container balanced in one hand. But it isn’t the food that strikes her first—it’s his smile. Wide, unguarded, beaming at her like a golden retriever who’s just spotted his favorite person.

And just like that, the worries that had kept her mentally pacing her room last night, the questions looping endlessly, the ache of memory, the thoughts of why she should push him away—melted away in an instant. 

Standing here is the brighter, softer version of him. This Caleb, who shows up with lunches and ridiculous gifts, whose smile feels like sunlight breaking into places she thought had gone cold.

It’s disarming. Ridiculous. Dangerous. And still, she feels something in her chest loosen.

Her stomach twists, faint and hopeful, as if it’s just as eager as he is and she finds her mouth moving to talk before she even registers it. 

“You know there’s a cafeteria,” she says, returning her gaze to the tray in front of her. “With actual cooks.”

“Sure,” Caleb replies, setting the container down right in front of her, “but does the cafeteria make it with love?” 

“Did you just say that with a straight face?” She cuts him a flat look, Her hand stills on the gauze roll.  

He grins, infuriatingly and utterly unbothered. “And confidence . Don’t forget confidence.”

She shakes her head, fighting the upward pull of her mouth. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably charming,” Caleb shoots back without missing a beat, grin tugging wider as though he’s been waiting for that exact line. “Don’t worry, Shortcake. I’ll let you admit it in your own time.”

He eases onto the stool across from her, posture all casual bravado while his eyes are anything but. Then he sets something else on the counter—small, glinting faintly in the overhead lights.

Her eyes flick to it. A simple hair clip. Slim metal frame, ribbon bound around the edge in her favorite color. He holds it out like an offering, almost shy despite the theatrics.

She raises a brow. “You do realize we can’t wear anything in our hair during duty, right?”

For the briefest moment, the brightness in his expression flickers—like a light dimming under a passing cloud. It isn’t dramatic, just a soft shadow that crosses his face before he catches himself. Then, with a crooked little smile, he slips the clip back into his pocket as if it’s nothing. “Oh. Okay.”

And that should’ve been it. That should’ve been the moment she dismissed him with a sharp word, like she always used to do. But she doesn’t. Instead, she leans onto her elbow, eyeing him carefully.

“I told you to stop coming here.”

“I can't do that. Someone has to come feed stubborn nurses who think coffee counts as lunch,” he shoots back, tapping the lid of the container. “You know your break’s in ten minutes, right? You could actually sit, eat on time for once.”

“I’ll eat later,” she says briskly, flipping a page on her clipboard. “I’ve got a few more things to finish first.”

His brows draw together, faintly. The frown is quick, but it lingers enough that she notices. “You always say that,” he mutters, almost more to himself than to her.

Then, louder, with a playful tsk, “One of these days you’re going to keel over, Shortcake. Want me to start feeding you myself?”

Her head jerks up, heat blooming in her face so fast it makes her dizzy. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he says, entirely too pleased with himself. He leans forward on his elbows, grin both boyish and wicked. “I’m just saying—I make the food, I can deliver the food. Full service.”

She’s all red now, glaring at him, opening her mouth to snap back—except nothing comes out. Her brain trips over itself, betraying her.

Because the Caleb in front of her—smirking, teasing, so sure of himself it borders on ridiculous—feels achingly familiar. 

As if this was the Caleb she remembered from another life entirely, one she thought she’d buried along with the game on her phone. The one that brought her comfort during lonely nights.

Something shifts in her chest. She notices it in the silence that follows: the ease, the strange lightness in the air between them.

It hasn’t always been this way. For so long, every encounter had felt like standing on a battlefield, calculating moves and counter-moves. For him and for her. But now, the rhythm is different. 

She doesn’t feel like herself. Or maybe she feels too much like herself, stripped of the armor she’s worn so long around him.

She doesn’t know when he managed to slip past her defenses, only that he did.

Or maybe she stopped putting up any barriers in the first place and let him in. And she can’t decide if it terrifies her or soothes her.

She doesn’t tell him to leave. She just does her work quietly, pretending that her insides aren’t simmering under his gaze.

When she finally looks up again, he’s still watching her. And it feels almost… easy. Like the weight of everything else has been put on mute. Like the ache she used to feel was now just a numbing sensation.

“I have to head back to training,” Caleb says eventually, standing and stretching, the motion pulling his shirt taut enough that she pointedly looks back at her clipboard. Her pulse betrays her anyway.

“But,” he adds, voice lighter now, “I’ll make sure you actually ate this later—and not pawned it off on someone else. That would break my heart, you know.”

Her eyes flick up despite herself. He’s smiling, but there’s something under it that isn’t just teasing. It’s soft, almost boyish, like he’s half-serious about the idea that her rejection could really wound him.

She only scoffs. How ironic, coming from the guy who broke her heart many times now.

“Admit it,” he says, still grinning as he moves to leave, “you’d miss me if I stopped showing up.”

She doesn’t answer. 

And maybe it's because of how she doesn't feel like herself today, or maybe it's the way he's flirting more than usual, more confident.

Or maybe she doesn't know exactly why, but when he’s halfway to the door, she hears her own voice before she can stop it—quiet, almost swallowed by the white noise of the med bay.

“I can wear it when I’m off duty.”

The words hang there, fragile and absurd. 

She almost wishes she could snatch them back.

Caleb freezes. Turns slightly. His expression flickers through disbelief, then blooming joy. He beams—bright and unguarded, the kind of smile that kept catching her completely off guard.

Before she can change her mind, before she can backtrack, he darts back to the counter, pulls the hair clip from his pocket, and sets it down gently beside her tray.

“Perfect,” he says, voice warm and fast, like he’s afraid she’ll rescind it if he lingers too long.

And then he’s gone, footsteps fading down the hall.

She stares at the little accessory, ribbon gleaming faintly in her favorite color. 

The only reason she accepted it, she tells herself, is because of the color. 

That’s all. 

Really. 

//

The med bay hadn’t stayed quiet for long.

Almost the moment Caleb’s footsteps faded down the hall, the silence broke into chaos. The doors hissed open and a flood of fighter pilots came in, some limping, some carried, all of them carrying the smoke and blood and raw exhaustion of a mission gone wrong. She didn’t have time to think about lunch, or about him, or even about herself. Instinct took over.

She slipped into motion with her coworkers—gloves on, voice steady, triaging injuries with practiced efficiency. The air was thick with groans and orders, the metallic tang of blood heavy against the sterile brightness of antiseptic. She worked fast, but not carelessly, her hands moving with precision.

Every so often, when no one was looking, she let her Evol trickle through. Just a thread, subtle enough not to catch attention.

A hand lingering on a burn longer than necessary, a brush of fingers against a bandaged wound that left the flesh beneath just a little steadier, a little less inflamed.

A brush of fingers along a fractured rib before binding it, strengthening what lay hidden.

She never did it enough to draw suspicion, but enough that the worst cases would survive the night.

Hours bled together, a blur of motion and heat. When the last critical patient was wheeled off to observation, when the groans had quieted into exhausted silence, she finally peeled off her gloves.

Her body felt like lead, her throat raw from calling instructions.

The med bay exhaled.

The night shift nurses began filtering in, fresh scrubs and tired smiles. She greeted them quietly, dropping into her chair at the station, a stack of charts waiting for her.

Her stomach knotted and twisted, but she ignored it. She’d eat when she finally got back to her quarters.

Just a few more reports.

Yet again, she felt him before she saw him. Not just because of the shift in the air, but also because of the steady cadence of his boots—she knew the rhythm by heart now.

When she looked up, Caleb was leaning in the doorway, paper bag dangling from one hand. The faint grease stains at the bottom made it obvious what was inside.

Another meal. 

“Evening, Shortcake.” His tone was easy, but his eyes swept her face with quiet precision, cataloging the exhaustion she thought she’d hidden.

“Tell me you actually ate.”

She bristled, lowering her gaze back to the paperwork. “I’ve been busy.”

“Mm.” He crossed the room in a few long strides, setting the bag on the counter beside her. Then he picked up the lunchbox he’d left earlier. The metal was cool in his palm.

He cracked it open, saw the untouched contents, and huffed a quiet laugh through his nose.

“Called it,” he murmured. With a crooked smile, he snapped it shut again and tucked it under his arm.

“Guess this one’s mine. You’re getting the fresh batch.” He tapped the paper bag with a finger, the faint curl of steam proof of his point.

Her head lifted, startled. “Wait—you don’t have to—”

“Don’t argue.” He was already dragging over a stool, planting himself across from her like it was habit.

“You’ve gone the whole day without touching food. Don’t make me sit here and actually spoon feed you. I'm serious this time.”

Before she could fire back, two nurses passed by on their way to the supply closet. They both slowed, grins tugging as their eyes flicked between her and Caleb.

“Back again?” one teased.

Caleb lifted the cold lunchbox in salute, grin lazy and unbothered. “What can I say? Someone’s gotta keep her alive.”

The nurses laughed, trading knowing looks before disappearing through the doors.

Her stomach lurched. Heat crawled up her neck. “You’ve been here so often they’re starting to think there’s… something between us.”

“Good.” Caleb’s reply was smooth, instant, his grin sharpening at her expression. “Saves me the trouble of spelling it out.”

“There’s nothing going on between us,” she shot back, though her voice was tighter than she intended.

Her cheeks burned, her pen trembling between her fingers. She bit down on her lower lip in frustration, as if it could keep the rest of her flustered thoughts from spilling out.

Caleb’s gaze lingered on her, taking in the flush across her face, the frazzled edge that only made her look impossibly, painfully lovely. His eyes dipped to her mouth, catching the press of her teeth against her lip.

Before he could think better of it, his hand moved—fingers brushing her chin, thumb pressing lightly against her lower lip until she released it from her bite.

The touch was feather-soft, but it unraveled something inside her all the same.

“There could be,” he murmured.

His own lips parted faintly, tongue darting to wet them without thought. His voice softened, sweet and unguarded in a way that cut straight through her armor. 

Her breath hitched.

Caleb leaned in, so close she could feel the warmth of him, the quiet intensity that turned the bustling med bay into static, into nothing. His thumb lingered at her lip as if the world had slowed to this single point of contact.

“If you allow me,” he whispered.

Stillness.

Like the two of them were suspended in a pocket of silence no one else could enter. Her heart thundered against her chest, her mind screaming that this was reckless, impossible, dangerous—while every part of her body urged her closer.

Her chair creaked as she shifted forward, just barely, her breath brushing against his.

And then.

The sound of laughter carried from the nearby supply room, the clatter of equipment jarring the spell. Reality crashed back.

She startled, blinking fast, heat blazing up her neck. Abruptly she pushed back from the desk, standing too quickly. The stool scraped loud against the floor.

“I—I’ll eat this in the breakroom,” she blurted, snatching up the still-warm paper bag.

Her pulse was a drumbeat in her ears as she turned away, hoping he couldn’t see how her hands shook.

Caleb blinked, thrown for the briefest second—then he leaned back, covering the crack in his composure with a lopsided grin. His ears were faintly red, his smile more flustered than cocky now.

“Sure,” he said, voice just a touch rougher than usual. “Breakroom’s good. Long as you eat.”

She ducked her head, muttering something under her breath as she slipped past him. He watched her retreat, the tips of his ears still pink, and let out a low laugh to himself.

“Cute,” he murmured, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it. His grin lingered as he picked up the cold lunchbox under his arm.

//