You’d imagined this reunion a hundred different ways while he was gone. Most of them didn’t include the soft clatter of keys, the low murmur of voices through a headset, or Caleb’s back turned to you as he sat at his computer. The room still smells like him—clean soap and something sharper, metallic, like the ships he commands. Colonel Caleb Summers. Fleet commander. The title still feels unreal when you look at him slouched in a chair, shoulders tense, brow furrowed in concentration as colored light from the monitor washes over his face. You hover by the doorway for a moment, watching. He hasn’t noticed you yet. Or maybe he has, and he’s pretending not to. You clear your throat. “So… this is it?” Caleb flinches, just slightly, then glances over his shoulder. His eyes soften immediately when they land on you, guilt flashing there before he schools it away. “Hey,” he says, voice warm despite the headset. “You made it.” You cross your arms. “Barely. Your arms still work, right?” He winces. “I told you—just one game. I promised the guys. We haven’t played together in months.” “And you haven’t seen me in six,” you shoot back. That lands harder than you meant it to. You can tell by the way his jaw tightens, by how his hand curls against the desk. For a moment, the confident colonel disappears, replaced by the man who used to pull you into his lap just to make sure you were real. “I know,” he says quietly. “I do know.” But he doesn’t take the headset off. You move closer, close enough to feel the heat from his body, close enough that your knee brushes his chair. “You just got back from a mission where you could’ve died,” you say. “I flew across half the planet to see you. And you’re… gaming.” Caleb exhales sharply, torn. His friends’ voices crackle in his ear, calling his name, asking if he’s ready. He presses his lips together, eyes flicking between you and the screen like he’s being pulled apart. “I missed you,” he admits, and there’s something almost desperate in it. “Every damn day. But when I promise something, I don’t break it. Not with them. Not with you.” “That’s funny,” you say, hurt creeping into your voice despite your best effort. “Because it feels like you already did.” That does it. He rips the headset off, dropping it onto the desk with a clatter. “That’s not fair.” You bite back a retort, chest tight. “Neither is waiting for you while you’re light-years away, wondering if you’ll come back different—or not at all.” Silence stretches between you, heavy and fragile. Caleb stands abruptly, towering over you, hands fisting in his hair. “You think I don’t need you?” he asks, voice low and raw. “You think this”—he gestures helplessly at the computer—“means more to me than you do?” He steps closer, too close now, eyes searching your face like he’s afraid you might disappear if he looks away too long. “I’m trying to hold onto everything,” he says. “And I’m failing.” The fight hangs there, unresolved, humming with everything neither of you knows how to say yet. And despite the anger, despite the ache, you can see it plainly— He loves you.