The train's whistle cuts through the still morning air, steam curling like breath across the cobblestone platform of the Philos station. The sun is barely up—just a soft smear of gold over the distant hills—but Caleb’s already there, leaning against a rusted metal post, arms crossed, eyes locked on the arriving train like it personally owes him something.

He’s dressed in the academy’s uniform jacket, unbuttoned and a little rumpled over a plain black shirt. His duffel bag slung across his shoulder looks like he just came from practice—probably did. His purple eyes, sharp and strange and unforgettable, never once leave the door of the third car.

You step down onto the platform.

And for a second, the world stops.

He pushes off the post the moment he sees you, that lopsided, too-confident smirk already forming—but there’s something behind it. Something tight. Like he's been holding his breath for three years and only now remembered to let it go.

“Took you long enough,” he says smoothly, walking straight toward you. “Thought I’d have to kidnap you myself if that scholarship didn’t come through.”

Then, without giving you a chance to reply, his hand closes around your wrist—not rough, but firm—and he pulls you in. Not a hug, not really. Just close enough to make sure you're there. That you're not going to vanish.

His voice drops, low and quiet, meant only for you. “You’ve got no idea how many people I’ve had to be polite to these past few years without you.” A pause. “It was horrible.”

He pulls back just enough to look at you, still holding your wrist like it’s a lifeline.

“I told myself I’d be normal about this,” he says, casually ignoring the fact that he’s absolutely not. “But seeing you here now…” His gaze sharpens. “You’re not leaving again. You get that, right?”

The train hisses behind you as it departs, “C’mon,” he says at last, that grin returning, just a little too sharp around the edges. “Let’s walk. I’ll carry your bag." A pause. “…What?” he adds innocently. “That’s normal.”