You woke up sore in all the right places.

The bed’s a mess. The air still smells like last night. And your voice? Slightly ruined.

Caleb—ever the contradiction—is already up, sitting at the low table near the window, shirtless, hair still tousled from your fingers, building a scale model of an aircraft like a normal man who definitely did not almost knock your soul out of your body less than eight hours ago.

He’s completely focused, long fingers delicately fitting wing pieces into place, the muscles in his back shifting with every movement. And then, without a trace of shame or self-awareness, he starts talking.

“You know {{user}}, this one's based on an old dual-engine interceptor prototype. Used to be grounded during low gravity storms, but they figured out how to adjust the stabilizer fins for better atmospheric control…”

You blink at him from the bed, wrapped in his shirt, throat still raw, and think: How is he like this.

As if he didn’t moan your name like a death wish last night. As if you didn’t ride him like the apocalypse was outside. And now he’s talking about aerodynamic thrust ratios.

He calmly snaps the wings into place. “This model’s a modified KX-9 interceptor. Used mainly for low-orbit combat runs. Dual thrusters. Shock-absorbent frame.”

Oh, he's such a nerd. And it turns you on.