Chapter Text
Her room feels smaller tonight.
She lies on her back, staring at the ceiling, trying—failing—to will herself into stillness.
Her wrist still tingles where his hand had closed around it. The phantom heat lingers, stubborn as a bruise, like her body is unwilling to let go of the memory.
What do you think about me?
The words loop in her mind, unrelenting. A simple question. Ridiculously simple. And yet it warms her until it burns, aches until it hollows her out.
Because the truth is merciless. She doesn’t know how to separate the two versions of him.
There is this Caleb. The one whose eyes are clear and unwavering, who looks at her like she’s not just seen but understood. This Caleb doesn’t flinch from vulnerability; he stands in it, bares it with a kind of reckless honesty that disarms her.
She wants to fall into that gaze, to pull him close and melt into the safety it promises. She wants to stop thinking that he’s only that way because he doesn’t remember everything between them.
But then there is the other Caleb.
The Caleb who looked at her with scorn sharp enough to slice her in two. The Caleb whose guilt afterward was just as heavy, pressing her into the ground until she could hardly breathe.
That Caleb had left her raw. That Caleb had made her question what any of it was for—what he was for.
The Caleb she still loved, regardless of his demons and the decisions he'd made that left her in pieces .
She closes her eyes, the ceiling blurring into the shadowed dark.
She doesn’t know which one she’d be left with if— when —his memories return. Will he look at her the way he did tonight, with hope trembling just beneath the surface? Or will he look at her like before, like she’s the sharp edge of his regret?
Her hand drifts almost unconsciously to the bracelet on her wrist. The familiar braid is rough beneath her fingertips, worn soft in certain places from years of touch.
She fiddles with it until the fibers dig faintly into her skin, grounding her.
She clings to it because she has to, because otherwise she’ll reach for him.
She’ll be greedy.
She wants to reach out. To bridge the space that feels both infinite and dangerously thin between them.
The urge to press her fingers against his jaw, to trace the curve of his cheekbone, to tell him that she does think about him—that she always has, in ways she never asked for—is so strong it steals the breath from her lungs.
But what then? What happens when his memory comes back and sweeps away the tenderness of tonight? Will he look at her with regret again? Will this bright version of him, the one who wears his longing like it’s his only shield, vanish the moment the past returns?
She presses the heel of her palm against her eyes until sparks dance in the darkness. She doesn’t want to be weak like this. Doesn’t want to give in because she knows.
At the end of it all, she’ll be left behind.
Again.
//
The medical bay is quieter than usual when he shows up. Midday lull. Only a handful of patients, most of the nurses catching up on paperwork or inventory.
She’s sorting supplies at her station, eyes fixed on the neat rows of vials and gauze, when the soft scrape of boots on tile announces him.
She doesn’t look up because she already knows it’s him by the way the air itself shifts when he enters, as though the room has to make space for him, as though he walks with a kind of quiet gravity that tugs at her whether she wants it to or not.
“Brought reinforcements,” he says lightly. His voice is warm and teasing, like he’s already been smiling before reaching her.
She glances up to see him leaning casually against the counter, lunch container balanced in one hand. But it isn’t the food that strikes her first—it’s his smile. Wide, unguarded, beaming at her like a golden retriever who’s just spotted his favorite person.
And just like that, the worries that had kept her mentally pacing her room last night, the questions looping endlessly, the ache of memory, the thoughts of why she should push him away—melted away in an instant.
Standing here is the brighter, softer version of him. This Caleb, who shows up with lunches and ridiculous gifts, whose smile feels like sunlight breaking into places she thought had gone cold.
It’s disarming. Ridiculous. Dangerous. And still, she feels something in her chest loosen.
Her stomach twists, faint and hopeful, as if it’s just as eager as he is and she finds her mouth moving to talk before she even registers it.
“You know there’s a cafeteria,” she says, returning her gaze to the tray in front of her. “With actual cooks.”
“Sure,” Caleb replies, setting the container down right in front of her, “but does the cafeteria make it with love?”
“Did you just say that with a straight face?” She cuts him a flat look, Her hand stills on the gauze roll.
He grins, infuriatingly and utterly unbothered. “And confidence . Don’t forget confidence.”
She shakes her head, fighting the upward pull of her mouth. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Unbelievably charming,” Caleb shoots back without missing a beat, grin tugging wider as though he’s been waiting for that exact line. “Don’t worry, Shortcake. I’ll let you admit it in your own time.”
He eases onto the stool across from her, posture all casual bravado while his eyes are anything but. Then he sets something else on the counter—small, glinting faintly in the overhead lights.
Her eyes flick to it. A simple hair clip. Slim metal frame, ribbon bound around the edge in her favorite color. He holds it out like an offering, almost shy despite the theatrics.
She raises a brow. “You do realize we can’t wear anything in our hair during duty, right?”
For the briefest moment, the brightness in his expression flickers—like a light dimming under a passing cloud. It isn’t dramatic, just a soft shadow that crosses his face before he catches himself. Then, with a crooked little smile, he slips the clip back into his pocket as if it’s nothing. “Oh. Okay.”
And that should’ve been it. That should’ve been the moment she dismissed him with a sharp word, like she always used to do. But she doesn’t. Instead, she leans onto her elbow, eyeing him carefully.
“I told you to stop coming here.”
“I can't do that. Someone has to come feed stubborn nurses who think coffee counts as lunch,” he shoots back, tapping the lid of the container. “You know your break’s in ten minutes, right? You could actually sit, eat on time for once.”
“I’ll eat later,” she says briskly, flipping a page on her clipboard. “I’ve got a few more things to finish first.”
His brows draw together, faintly. The frown is quick, but it lingers enough that she notices. “You always say that,” he mutters, almost more to himself than to her.
Then, louder, with a playful tsk, “One of these days you’re going to keel over, Shortcake. Want me to start feeding you myself?”
Her head jerks up, heat blooming in her face so fast it makes her dizzy. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he says, entirely too pleased with himself. He leans forward on his elbows, grin both boyish and wicked. “I’m just saying—I make the food, I can deliver the food. Full service.”
She’s all red now, glaring at him, opening her mouth to snap back—except nothing comes out. Her brain trips over itself, betraying her.
Because the Caleb in front of her—smirking, teasing, so sure of himself it borders on ridiculous—feels achingly familiar.
As if this was the Caleb she remembered from another life entirely, one she thought she’d buried along with the game on her phone. The one that brought her comfort during lonely nights.
Something shifts in her chest. She notices it in the silence that follows: the ease, the strange lightness in the air between them.
It hasn’t always been this way. For so long, every encounter had felt like standing on a battlefield, calculating moves and counter-moves. For him and for her. But now, the rhythm is different.
She doesn’t feel like herself. Or maybe she feels too much like herself, stripped of the armor she’s worn so long around him.
She doesn’t know when he managed to slip past her defenses, only that he did.
Or maybe she stopped putting up any barriers in the first place and let him in. And she can’t decide if it terrifies her or soothes her.
She doesn’t tell him to leave. She just does her work quietly, pretending that her insides aren’t simmering under his gaze.
When she finally looks up again, he’s still watching her. And it feels almost… easy. Like the weight of everything else has been put on mute. Like the ache she used to feel was now just a numbing sensation.
“I have to head back to training,” Caleb says eventually, standing and stretching, the motion pulling his shirt taut enough that she pointedly looks back at her clipboard. Her pulse betrays her anyway.
“But,” he adds, voice lighter now, “I’ll make sure you actually ate this later—and not pawned it off on someone else. That would break my heart, you know.”
Her eyes flick up despite herself. He’s smiling, but there’s something under it that isn’t just teasing. It’s soft, almost boyish, like he’s half-serious about the idea that her rejection could really wound him.
She only scoffs. How ironic, coming from the guy who broke her heart many times now.
“Admit it,” he says, still grinning as he moves to leave, “you’d miss me if I stopped showing up.”
She doesn’t answer.
And maybe it's because of how she doesn't feel like herself today, or maybe it's the way he's flirting more than usual, more confident.
Or maybe she doesn't know exactly why, but when he’s halfway to the door, she hears her own voice before she can stop it—quiet, almost swallowed by the white noise of the med bay.
“I can wear it when I’m off duty.”
The words hang there, fragile and absurd.
She almost wishes she could snatch them back.
Caleb freezes. Turns slightly. His expression flickers through disbelief, then blooming joy. He beams—bright and unguarded, the kind of smile that kept catching her completely off guard.
Before she can change her mind, before she can backtrack, he darts back to the counter, pulls the hair clip from his pocket, and sets it down gently beside her tray.
“Perfect,” he says, voice warm and fast, like he’s afraid she’ll rescind it if he lingers too long.
And then he’s gone, footsteps fading down the hall.
She stares at the little accessory, ribbon gleaming faintly in her favorite color.
The only reason she accepted it, she tells herself, is because of the color.
That’s all.
Really.
//
The med bay hadn’t stayed quiet for long.
Almost the moment Caleb’s footsteps faded down the hall, the silence broke into chaos. The doors hissed open and a flood of fighter pilots came in, some limping, some carried, all of them carrying the smoke and blood and raw exhaustion of a mission gone wrong. She didn’t have time to think about lunch, or about him, or even about herself. Instinct took over.
She slipped into motion with her coworkers—gloves on, voice steady, triaging injuries with practiced efficiency. The air was thick with groans and orders, the metallic tang of blood heavy against the sterile brightness of antiseptic. She worked fast, but not carelessly, her hands moving with precision.
Every so often, when no one was looking, she let her Evol trickle through. Just a thread, subtle enough not to catch attention.
A hand lingering on a burn longer than necessary, a brush of fingers against a bandaged wound that left the flesh beneath just a little steadier, a little less inflamed.
A brush of fingers along a fractured rib before binding it, strengthening what lay hidden.
She never did it enough to draw suspicion, but enough that the worst cases would survive the night.
Hours bled together, a blur of motion and heat. When the last critical patient was wheeled off to observation, when the groans had quieted into exhausted silence, she finally peeled off her gloves.
Her body felt like lead, her throat raw from calling instructions.
The med bay exhaled.
The night shift nurses began filtering in, fresh scrubs and tired smiles. She greeted them quietly, dropping into her chair at the station, a stack of charts waiting for her.
Her stomach knotted and twisted, but she ignored it. She’d eat when she finally got back to her quarters.
Just a few more reports.
Yet again, she felt him before she saw him. Not just because of the shift in the air, but also because of the steady cadence of his boots—she knew the rhythm by heart now.
When she looked up, Caleb was leaning in the doorway, paper bag dangling from one hand. The faint grease stains at the bottom made it obvious what was inside.
Another meal.
“Evening, Shortcake.” His tone was easy, but his eyes swept her face with quiet precision, cataloging the exhaustion she thought she’d hidden.
“Tell me you actually ate.”
She bristled, lowering her gaze back to the paperwork. “I’ve been busy.”
“Mm.” He crossed the room in a few long strides, setting the bag on the counter beside her. Then he picked up the lunchbox he’d left earlier. The metal was cool in his palm.
He cracked it open, saw the untouched contents, and huffed a quiet laugh through his nose.
“Called it,” he murmured. With a crooked smile, he snapped it shut again and tucked it under his arm.
“Guess this one’s mine. You’re getting the fresh batch.” He tapped the paper bag with a finger, the faint curl of steam proof of his point.
Her head lifted, startled. “Wait—you don’t have to—”
“Don’t argue.” He was already dragging over a stool, planting himself across from her like it was habit.
“You’ve gone the whole day without touching food. Don’t make me sit here and actually spoon feed you. I'm serious this time.”
Before she could fire back, two nurses passed by on their way to the supply closet. They both slowed, grins tugging as their eyes flicked between her and Caleb.
“Back again?” one teased.
Caleb lifted the cold lunchbox in salute, grin lazy and unbothered. “What can I say? Someone’s gotta keep her alive.”
The nurses laughed, trading knowing looks before disappearing through the doors.
Her stomach lurched. Heat crawled up her neck. “You’ve been here so often they’re starting to think there’s… something between us.”
“Good.” Caleb’s reply was smooth, instant, his grin sharpening at her expression. “Saves me the trouble of spelling it out.”
“There’s nothing going on between us,” she shot back, though her voice was tighter than she intended.
Her cheeks burned, her pen trembling between her fingers. She bit down on her lower lip in frustration, as if it could keep the rest of her flustered thoughts from spilling out.
Caleb’s gaze lingered on her, taking in the flush across her face, the frazzled edge that only made her look impossibly, painfully lovely. His eyes dipped to her mouth, catching the press of her teeth against her lip.
Before he could think better of it, his hand moved—fingers brushing her chin, thumb pressing lightly against her lower lip until she released it from her bite.
The touch was feather-soft, but it unraveled something inside her all the same.
“There could be,” he murmured.
His own lips parted faintly, tongue darting to wet them without thought. His voice softened, sweet and unguarded in a way that cut straight through her armor.
Her breath hitched.
Caleb leaned in, so close she could feel the warmth of him, the quiet intensity that turned the bustling med bay into static, into nothing. His thumb lingered at her lip as if the world had slowed to this single point of contact.
“If you allow me,” he whispered.
Stillness.
Like the two of them were suspended in a pocket of silence no one else could enter. Her heart thundered against her chest, her mind screaming that this was reckless, impossible, dangerous—while every part of her body urged her closer.
Her chair creaked as she shifted forward, just barely, her breath brushing against his.
And then.
The sound of laughter carried from the nearby supply room, the clatter of equipment jarring the spell. Reality crashed back.
She startled, blinking fast, heat blazing up her neck. Abruptly she pushed back from the desk, standing too quickly. The stool scraped loud against the floor.
“I—I’ll eat this in the breakroom,” she blurted, snatching up the still-warm paper bag.
Her pulse was a drumbeat in her ears as she turned away, hoping he couldn’t see how her hands shook.
Caleb blinked, thrown for the briefest second—then he leaned back, covering the crack in his composure with a lopsided grin. His ears were faintly red, his smile more flustered than cocky now.
“Sure,” he said, voice just a touch rougher than usual. “Breakroom’s good. Long as you eat.”
She ducked her head, muttering something under her breath as she slipped past him. He watched her retreat, the tips of his ears still pink, and let out a low laugh to himself.
“Cute,” he murmured, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe it. His grin lingered as he picked up the cold lunchbox under his arm.
//