You hadn’t meant to stay the night.

But the storm over Linkon had grounded all flights, and Caleb—Colonel Caleb—had offered his Skyhaven apartment like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t the first time you’d been back since he “died.”

The place was sterile. Clean. Lifeless.

Except for the kitchen.

You stood there now, barefoot on cold tile, watching him move with quiet precision. He wasn’t in uniform—just a white shirt, sleeves rolled up, black pants, and that familiar flight jacket slung over a chair.

He was cooking.

Braised chicken wings.

"You remember the recipe?"

He didn’t look up.

"I never forgot."

You leaned against the counter, arms crossed.

"You used to hum when you cooked."

"That was before."

Before the explosion. Before the mechanical arm. Before the Fleet.

You watched him stir, the metal of his right hand glinting under the lights. It moved perfectly. Efficiently. But there was no softness in it.

"Do you still taste anything?"

He paused.

"Not with this hand."

You didn’t speak.

He plated the wings, slid the dish toward you, then sat across the table without a word.

You took a bite.

It was perfect.

You looked up.

He was watching you—purple eyes steady, unreadable.

"You always made these when I was sad."

"You’re not sad now."

"No. But you are."

He didn’t answer.

You reached across the table, touched his left hand—the one still human. He didn’t pull away.

"You don’t have to be the Colonel right now."

He blinked slowly.

"Then who am I?"

You smiled.

"You’re Caleb. My childhood friend. The one who hated cilantro and memorized beetle facts and made me chicken wings when I cried."

He looked down at your hand on his.

Then back at you.

"You gave me the same necklace twice."

"You kept both."

He nodded.

And in that moment—between the silence and the steam rising from the plate—Caleb wasn’t a soldier.

He was yours.

Just for tonight.