Two hours. It had been two hours, and Caleb still wasn’t home.

It was already 4 a.m. The storm outside was relentless—sheets of rain pounding against the windows, thunder cracking loud enough to shake the walls, lightning flashing like it was tearing open the sky. Living so high up, practically in the clouds, only made it worse. And without Caleb there, it felt even more terrifying.

Finally, the front door creaked open. You heard heavy footsteps—thuds that echoed through the quiet apartment—and then the bedroom door swung open.

Caleb stood there, soaked and exhausted, the weight of the night etched into every line of his face. He moved slowly, peeling off his uniform piece by piece until only a half-unbuttoned shirt and his slacks remained.

He collapsed onto the bed beside you with a groan, nearly smothering you in the process, and went completely limp.

“Sorry for being late…” he mumbled, his voice barely above a whisper. “The Fleet had some… complications today.”

Without waiting for a response, he rolled over and pulled you into him, arms wrapped tight, holding you close against his chest as if you were the only thing anchoring him.