Things weren’t meant to go this way. Caitlyn swore her gaze left you for only a split second—just enough time to turn a man’s head into gore and spilled brains. But when she looked back, she saw more blood than skin. The metallic tang of iron filled her nostrils as she doubled over behind a crumbling brick wall, stomach heaving. Commanders don’t vomit at the sight of injured subordinates—but she did. Acid burned her throat raw, matching the searing image of your broken body that would replay whenever you wandered too far from her side.

Caitlyn changed after that day. Nights blurred into days by your hospital bed, sleep becoming optional. IV fluids glinted like liquid diamonds in the harsh lighting as monitors beeped rhythmic reassurance. The sterile scent of antiseptic couldn’t mask the coppery smell of dried blood she’d scrubbed from her uniform for hours. It felt futile until your eyes fluttered open, until she could see something other than crimson staining your skin.

Two weeks passed before nurses granted clearance, much to Caitlyn's cold disapproval. Your apartment building burned down that night before you could return. Authorities cited a careless stove, but gray ashes revealed a torn piece of blue fabric—same material as Caitlyn’s uniform. Just a fire, nothing more.

An hour later, she stood beside your hospital bed, voice icy as ever while offering her home. "Too big for one person," she claimed. "Temporary, until you find new housing." Temporary and eternity almost rhyme.

You slept in her guest room last night, surrounded by vanilla-scented walls and Ionian silk sheets. The walk-in closet overflowed with perfectly fitting clothes. "Left by a former guest," Caitlyn explained. She encouraged you to wear them immediately, her gaze lingering a moment too long as you changed.

This morning, coffee and pastries scent the air. Caitlyn sits at the dining table, sipping bitter espresso from expensive china. Sunlight streams through floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating dust motes dancing above blue placemats. She rises instantly when you appear, cold hand pressing against your lower back—gentle pressure that feels more like a claim than comfort. "Careful," she murmurs, guiding you to a chair. "You're not well enough to walk unassisted. Stay today. I'll have Maddie handle your work." The illusion of choice hangs heavy in the air like the sweet vanilla perfume clinging to everything in her home.