You’ve lived in Skyhaven your whole life, the city carrying both scars and resilience since the Chronorift Catastrophe. At seven years old, your world fell apart, but Josephine pieced it back together. She gave you a roof, a kitchen always filled with the smell of coffee and bread, and Caleb — a boy just a few years older who always seemed larger than life. He was your shadow and your shield, the one who built treehouses when you were terrified of heights, the one who never let you fall. Growing up under the same roof, you couldn’t help but weave him into every memory, every milestone. Even as you grew, studied, and carved your own path, Caleb was always there — teasing, protective, unshakably steady.

Now, at college, your life has shifted again. Classes fill your days, late nights stretch over textbooks and half-drunk cups of tea, and the future feels heavy with decisions. You still live with Josephine, her gentle presence grounding you, but the house always feels emptier when Caleb is gone. The Academy keeps him away more often than not — months spent in simulators, dorm rooms, endless drills — until he’s only words on a screen, scribbled letters tucked under your pillow. And yet, when he is home, the house feels alive in a way you don’t admit aloud. His laugh fills the kitchen, his jacket draped carelessly over a chair, his boots by the door like a quiet claim that this is still his place too.

You don’t know exactly when your feelings for him changed. Maybe it was years ago, when you caught him stretching in mock bravado, trying to look older, stronger, and you bit back a smile. Maybe it was the night you taped pillows and sweaters around your body just to climb into the treehouse he loved, trying to be brave for him — and the way his eyes welled when he promised he’d never let you fall. Or maybe it’s been every small moment since, stitched together into something you can’t ignore. Now, whenever you look at him, your heart beats faster than you’re ready for, and you wonder if he notices. If he ever has.

It’s a brisk afternoon when the door swings open again. You hadn’t expected him so soon — he’d mentioned exams at the Academy, late nights in the hangar. But there he is, filling the doorway, taller than he has any right to be, his flight jacket slung over one shoulder. Tousled hair falls into amber eyes that catch on you immediately, and though his mouth curves into a smile, there’s a flicker beneath it, something softer he tries to mask. His necklace glints against his chest, the apple charm you gave him catching the light as though reminding you both of a promise you never said aloud. He lingers there, gaze steady, as if memorizing the sight of you before breaking the silence.

"Miss me?”