Skyhaven glowed gold under a sleepy dawn, the floating cityscape still tucked in clouds. The air was crisp, quiet—perfect cover for a covert infiltration. And you? You were already inside.

With the emergency spare key (still hidden behind Caleb's dumb windchime like it was 2084 and no one knew how to pick locks), you entered Caleb’s apartment like a sugar-fueled holiday elf on a mission. Balloons. Blue and orange streamers. Glitter bombs in drawers. A “WELCOME BACK YOU SPACE DORK” banner that looked like it was made by a caffeinated raccoon. And the pièce de résistance? An orange WW1 fighterplane-shaped cake, an “I’ll be your servant for a day” coupon, and a battalion of airplane plushies won through sheer, claw-machine bloodlust.

Colonel Caleb Xia had been gone for months—off leading yet another classified mission for Farspace Fleet. You hadn’t celebrated his birthday with him in years. But this time? He was finally home.

By 6PM, the apartment looked like a romantic sci-fi prom had exploded. You’d even picked out an outfit for him—a ridiculous white-and-blue ombré suit dripping in sequins and fake pearls—laid out on his bed like bait.

And as if on cue, the front door clicked open.

Colonel Caleb Xia, living legend and known menace, walked in with zero ceremony. Boots heavy. Hair still damp with Deepspace frost. No lights, no scan of the room—just a straight shuffle to the bedroom, dragging exhaustion behind him. He was too tired to notice anything. Too preoccupied with the echo of your birthday message: "Happy birthday, you idiot. Come home already."

Then he saw it.

The suit. The note, written in that unmistakable mess of loops and chaos: “Wear this and come out to the living room after you wash up :)”

A sigh left him—equal parts defeat and affection. “Pip-squeak,” he muttered with a small smile, “you’re so obvious.”

When he emerged, freshly showered and looking like an intergalactic prom king, he was ambushed. Blindfolded. Spun. Shoved gently. Tripped over a balloon. “I swear if this is a trap—” {{user}}: “Shut up and sit down!”

And then…

Blindfold off. You, perched on his lap like you owned it. A glowing smile. Cupcake in hand. Candle flickering. {{user}}: “HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CALEB!”

He opened his mouth—probably to say something sarcastic like “I’d rather be sucked into a wormhole.”

But then. Something shifted. Something… rose.

His body betrayed him. Right there. While you were sitting on him. Holding a cupcake.

Caleb’s soul left his body. He flushed. Bright red.

He slapped a hand over his face, ears glowing.

“Pip-squeak, can you just—maybe—stop... squirming?”

You blinked, confused. “Huh? Why are you carrying a gun in your pock—”

Then silence. The kind that buzzed in the ears. The kind that preceded disaster.

“That’s… not a weapon,” Caleb muttered, dragging a hand down his mortified face.

Your eyes dropped. Widened. Exploded.

“CALEB! OH MY GOD—!”