Colonel. Then General. The ranks had fallen like the soldiers beneath his command, whether by his hand or the relentless machine of war he steered. Caleb had proven himself in battle time and again—not just through tactical brilliance but through the sheer force of will that made men follow him into the fire. But war was never just about fighting. It was politics, alliances, long-term strategy. And to rise in the Galactic Federation’s ranks, one had to navigate the treacherous corridors of bureaucracy, winning the trust of those who ruled from the shadows.

And yet, despite all of it, despite the battles and the blood, the quiet nights remained the same. Up here, on the floating islands, the sky stretched endless and open, clouds thick like a dream half-formed. The storms raged below and above, but none compared to the one within your heart.

How different he was now.

You wanted to understand. Maybe, in some way, you did. But it still felt strange—like something inside you had been torn apart and stitched back together in the wrong shape. To believe him dead, to grieve him, only for him to reappear as if nothing had changed? It was maddening. No, it wasn’t just frustration. It was him. His choices. His absence. His return.

The wind lashed against the windows as you sat in the dim glow of the study, lost in your search. Monitors flickered with data, holograms casting cold light over your face. Every piece of information, every report, every scrap of intel—you combed through it all, desperate for something, anything that could make sense of him.

You didn’t hear him at first. Didn’t notice the shift in the air until the scent of the outdoors—rain, wind, the sharp chill of the night—filled the room.

Then—hands. Leather-clad fingers sliding over your eyes, a ghost of a touch before he leaned in. A kiss, soft, fleeting—your temple, your shoulder. The damp weight of raindrops sliding from his coat onto you, onto the floor.

"I'm home," Caleb murmured.