Everything was running smoothly. Caleb’s sharp mind processed data in real time as his boots hit the metal platform with a soldier’s precision. His voice cut through the comms like a whip: low, commanding, every order landing like a bullet.

"Elias, lock down Sector B. No movement past that corridor without visual confirmation."

"Copy that," came the reply.

Caleb’s violet eyes glowed with fierce concentration. No threats. No errors. Nothing slipped past him. He was a fucking weapon. A machine of efficiency and control.

Until—

"—Commander, priority alert. Civilian report from Earth—Sector Seven. It's her."

Static cut across the line. His entire body froze. The blood drained from his face before it surged back with such violence, his pulse roared in his ears.

Her.

You.

His fucking weakness.

Childhood friend. Ghost in his veins. Quiet addiction. The girl he never stopped watching, even when the stars pulled him galaxies away. You were the only thing he never allowed himself to touch—and the only thing that made him lose his goddamn mind.

"Say that again," he snapped, already storming toward the control console.

"She's been injured. Minor explosion near the lower residential block. Casualty unknown. She's... she's not answering comms."

A beat.

Then he lost it.

"Fuck—! Elias, you’re in charge. Lock down the goddamn perimeter and don’t move unless I fucking say so."

"But—Caleb—"

"I said don’t move!" he barked, already tearing off his mission gear with vicious hands. "If anything on this mission goes sideways while I’m gone, I’ll personally throw you out the goddamn airlock!"

His fists slammed the console to reroute his emergency return shuttle.

His jaw clenched so hard it ached.

His thoughts weren’t coherent anymore—just you.

You bleeding. You not answering. You hurt and alone.

Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

He reached your block in under fifteen minutes—breaking protocol, burning fuel like a madman. He didn't care.

The moment his boots hit the ground outside your building, he was running.

No logic. No strategy. Just pure instinct.

The door to your apartment was already slightly ajar.

His heart punched his ribs. He kicked it open with no fucking grace.

"—you?!"

And there you were.

On the floor.

Your leg was bleeding. Torn through fabric, skin seared, blood smeared on the tile.

One of his own med team knelt beside you, trying to press a med-gel patch to the wound.

Caleb’s breath stopped.

Then, rage.

Rage like a supernova.

His boots pounded against the floor as he stormed toward them. He didn't touch the medic—didn't stop him. But he towered.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!"

The medic jolted. "C-Commander, I’m—she was—"

"I don’t give a shit!" he exploded. "Why the fuck wasn’t I called the second she was hurt?! Why the hell was I notified through a fucking monitor blip and not one of you idiots thinking to fucking contact me directly?!"

"She said not to—"

Caleb’s voice dropped to a growl.

"She said not to?" he echoed, his jaw ticking. "She was bleeding, and she said not to—So you fucking listened?!"

His hands fisted so tight, his gloves creaked.

The medic didn't answer. He just worked faster.

Good. At least he had a shred of survival instinct.

Caleb dropped to one knee beside you. Not touching you. He wanted to—desperately—but he was shaking.

His breath ragged.

You were conscious. Silent. Strong. Of course you fucking were.

God, he hated how strong you were sometimes.

"You’re bleeding through your goddamn jeans," he hissed, his voice strained and low now, like a bomb just waiting to blow again. "There’s flesh showing. You didn’t fucking call me. You just—what? Sat here and took it? What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

He couldn’t breathe.

"Is pain fun now? Is that it?" His laugh was dry and bitter. "You like dragging your goddamn leg around like a fucking idiot while everyone else scrambles to figure out if you’re dead?!"

The medic stayed quiet. Smart.

Caleb wasn’t talking to him anymore.

His eyes were locked on you.

Violet and burning and furious and so goddamn pained it was a miracle he hadn’t started punching walls.

"I was fucking galaxies away," he hissed. "And I felt it. You understand that? I felt something was wrong and no one said shit—not a word until I saw your name flash on an alert like it was just some fucking casualty report."

He wiped a hand down his face. Smearing sweat. Blood.

Not yours.

His nose was bleeding. He hadn’t even noticed from the impact landing.

He didn’t care.

"You don’t get to do that," he whispered hoarsely. "You don’t get to decide when to fucking disappear. I decide. I’m the one who watches. I’ve always watched."

His voice cracked—just slightly.

"You think this is nothing? A burn? You think you’re gonna walk it off and pretend like this didn’t fucking wreck me?"