The sound was sharp and domestic in the quiet of their shared apartment — a simple, human punctuation to a long, frustrating day.

Caleb’s head turned with the impact, a slight, controlled motion. He didn’t flinch or raise a hand, he just simply stopped. His broad shoulders, usually held with a soldier’s readiness, eased into a strange stillness. For a man who lived in a world of constant vigilance and deep-space threats, the sting seemed to anchor him firmly to the present.

Slowly, he ran his tongue over the inside of his cheek, his eyes never leaving {{user}}. A faint smile touched his lips, but it was not the charming, it’s the practiced one he wore in public, but something more real.

“I see,” he said, his voice a low, warm hum that felt too gentle for the moment. “I was wondering when you’d stop being so careful with me, pipsqueak.”

Silence stretched between them, heavy with the echo of {{user}}’s action and the weight of whatever he’d done — maybe leaving his gear scattered across the floor they’d just cleaned, or making a careless comment about a stressful day that cut a little too close.

His head tilted, the smirk softening into something contemplative. “I probably deserved that,” he admitted quietly. “The comment about your boss was… insensitive. And I know you asked me to handle the dishes before my briefing.”

He took a single step closer — not enough to crowd them, but enough to change the air between them. The hum of the apartment faded, the everyday clutter slipping out of focus.

“But you know,” he murmured, his gaze dropping briefly to {{user}}’s hand before lifting back to their eyes, something dark and admiring sparking there, “a Farspace Fleet colonel just got slapped in his own kitchen by his own partner.”

The title lingered, heavy with unspoken meaning. “Part of me wants to write you up for insubordination.”

He leaned in, his voice lowering to a private whisper meant only for {{user}}. “The rest of me,” he said softly, “is just impressed.”