Chapter Text
Green apple.
A nickname he once whispered lovingly into her hair when they were kids.
Hearing it again now felt like a cruel joke, echoing through a dim lecture hall while his aviation instructor explained that the “green apple” referred to the emergency O₂ activation handle—meant to restore oxygen flow during rapid-onset hypoxia, tunnel vision, and spatial disorientation.
A pull designed for the critical half-second between life and death.
The hope you held onto when everything else failed.
Just like he had always held onto her.
He pictured her smile, the softness of her palm against his, the way she laughed whenever he made a silly joke. The thought of her warmed his chest instantly; he was already thinking about the flowers he’d bring her when he got home, and the way that—
“She was so tight, man!”
“You fucked a virgin? You dog!”
Caleb’s face flushed as a particularly loud comment carried across the room from a group of boys in the back row, followed by laughter and heavy pats on the back. The innocent image he’d been clinging to twisted sharply, slipping out of his grasp.
He blinked, trying to steady his breathing and force his attention back to the front of the classroom, but the crude chatter kept spilling from the seats behind him, each word dragging him further away from the daydream he’d been lost in.
Another burst of laughter erupted, loud enough to draw even the instructor’s attention.
“Hey! Enough,” the instructor snapped, slamming a hand onto the podium.
“If you can’t keep your mouths shut during a briefing about emergency protocol, you’re not fit to sit in a cockpit. One mistake up there and you don’t get a second chance. Pay attention.”
Silence fell, stiff and forced.
Caleb swallowed, shoulders tense. His pulse still thudded in his ears, the ghost of his earlier thoughts lingering stubbornly.
Caleb wasn’t that kind of man.
At least, that’s what he tried to tell himself—clinging to the lie with a desperate, failing grip, as if it could drown out the fantasies that had haunted him since he was a teenage boy. Fantasies reignited now by his classmates’ crude comments. Fantasies about the girl who should have remained nothing more than his adoptive sister, who was completely unaware of his obsession, convinced that his love and protectiveness were nothing more than brotherly affection.
But convincing himself was getting harder with every passing year.
Every time she leaned her head on his arm, tugged his sleeve to get his attention, or kissed his cheek after he fulfilled one of her whims, his mind reeled with that pleasurably disgusting need to pull her closer and give in.
He wasn’t that kind of man, yet his body and mind betrayed him again and again.
Twenty-five now, he should’ve known better. But his thoughts kept slipping back to earlier years, to the academy, to when he was nineteen and still naïve enough to think he could outrun what he felt for her.
Even the explosion that had separated them a year and a half ago, and the years under Josephine’s care, felt like distant debris—left behind with the documents that once named them adoptive siblings.
So why was he still holding back?
The answer was simple: fear.
He chickened out every time he swore he’d confess. He had tried everything to forget her.
Avoiding physical contact by claiming he had a cold had backfired instantly; she’d sent him to bed, brought him hot soup, never realizing he was half-naked beneath the covers when she returned, or that the fever she felt in his forehead wasn’t illness at all, but the afterburn of his own self-inflicted release, caused entirely by her.
He had even tried reading one of the adult magazines he’d found accidentally under Gideon’s bed back at the academy, wrinkling his nose at the obscene imagery—women in skimpy outfits and exaggerated poses that did nothing for him.
Was he supposed to feel something?
He couldn’t. Not when none of them were like his pipsqueak.
And just like that, he was back where he started, turned on by the thought of her—imperfectly perfect—lying in his bed wearing one of the outfits the models wore. He imagined how she’d clumsily try to mimic the sensual poses, how her curves would strain against the tight fabric, and the shy, embarrassed smile she’d give him when she realized she wasn’t doing it right.
Even chores at their childhood home had been a problem.
The first time he’d found her panties in the laundry, he’d held them a bit too long, drawn in by the faint, intimate trace of her scent clinging to the fabric. His self-restraint had died completely before he defiled the poor garment.
It was wrong. He knew that. And still, he volunteered for laundry duty again and again until it became his job.
He once read that you can’t stop birds from flying over your head, but you can stop them from building a nest. If that applied to him, then his would already be the size of a fucking mansion. And he would’ve happily lived in it forever… if it weren’t for the fact that he was still a virgin.
Not by his own free will, but hers.
The embarrassment gnawed at him whenever the newer recruits—barely out of bootcamp—bragged about their conquests and nights out or when colleagues nudged him for details about his own. He always deflected with the same lie: a smirk, a shrug, and some vague comment about being a gentleman who didn’t kiss and tell.
They admired him for it, assuming the number of people he’d been with was better left unspoken.
If only they knew the truth: that he lied out of sheer panic, terrified that a single follow-up question would expose just how pathetically untouched the respected farspace's fleet colonel really was, despite all the women and men who threw themselves at him wherever he went.
How had he let it get this far?
His innocent adoration had twisted into something darker. Protecting her had become a far more dangerous mission when the greatest threat in her life was no longer the world, but himself.
He abused his authority in small, almost invisible ways—pulling strings to get her transferred to Skyhaven for a few days, adjusting her schedules, granting or revoking permissions as he pleased. Anything to keep her close.
It was harmless, really.
But he couldn’t trust himself alone with her anymore. Not when he might bare his feelings and lose her forever.
Worse yet, every hint and flirty comment went straight over her head, year after year—whether out of cluelessness or disinterest, and he didn’t know which possibility was worse.
Perhaps it would’ve been easier if it had been only sexual attraction, but he was hopelessly devoted. Pathetically so. A love so unbreakable that none of his attempts to forget the girl ever worked.
He wasn’t her hero anymore, not since he’d left for the aerospace academy and left her behind with promises he’d barely managed to keep.
And what certainty did he have that some bastard hadn’t already slept with her?
The thought made his stomach twist.
And even if, by some miracle, his fantasies someday became real, how was he supposed to please her with no experience?
The thought alone terrified him.
He could picture it too clearly: her trusting eyes on his, expecting confidence, expecting a man who knew what he was doing. Not a twenty-five-year-old virgin terrified of disappointing her.
His military training had prepared him for the harshest conditions.
But this?
Her?
He couldn’t risk it.
Not when thinking of her had been the single spark that kept him alive in the deepspace tunnel.
His last words had been a confession, murmured into her pendant hugging his neck as alarms screamed around him—seconds before everything went dark.
“When you come back.”
the engraving read.
A fragile prayer for his safety.
A desperate attempt to stay alive long enough if only to see her again.
She never knew how close he came to dying. She never knew her name was the lifeline he clung to.
What would he do if she knew the truth and wanted no part in it?
What would be left of him if she walked away?
And the worst part was knowing that if she ever turned to him—if she ever offered him even a fraction of what he dreamed—he’d take it with shaking hands.
He’d give her everything.
But he wasn’t sure if everything would be enough.
It was never just her body.
It was her.
And still, he couldn’t shake the shame clinging to him—the sick, heavy guilt of knowing that the puppy love he once carried so innocently had grown into something adult, aching, and so much harder to justify. He could no longer disguise his selfishness or the growing desire to hide her from the world.
He had already grieved every version of a life with her he would never have, burying those dreams until nothing remained but the hollow ache of acceptance.
Or what he liked to call acceptance.
Yet here she was.
Late at night, curled against his arm with the same innocent trust she’d had since childhood, her breath warm against his shirt. She sought him even in sleep, drawn to him by old habits that hadn’t faded. Maybe for her nothing essential had changed; storms were storms, and he was still the one she clung to when thunder shook the skies.
But she didn’t realize they weren’t children anymore. She didn’t see how much it hurt him to have her this close, how tightly he had to hold himself together, pretending he could handle the weight of her head on his chest without unraveling. Every small shift, every unconscious nuzzle, every sigh brushing his skin hit him with a force he had no training to endure.
He lay rigid beside her, heart pounding a frantic rhythm he prayed she wouldn’t hear, his mind caught between joy, torment, and a desire he had no right to feel. She fit against him too perfectly, as if some cruel god had shaped them for each other and then declared their union forbidden.
He was grateful for storms, for the excuse they gave him to hold her for a little longer. Before he had to let go.
“When are you gonna realize what you do to me, pipsqueak?” he whispered, the confession barely more than breath. Soft, helpless. Meant for the dark.
“You’re drivin’ me crazy…”
He pressed a trembling kiss to her forehead. She didn’t stir. She trusted him too deeply, saw him as something steady and safe, never imagining that he was hanging by a thread every time she looked at him with eyes that no longer belonged to a child seeking comfort, but to a woman he had no right to want.
He drew her closer, as gently as if she were made of porcelain.
And instantly regretted it.
She moved again in her sleep, unconscious, innocent. Her knee brushed his inner thigh, then slipped higher, settling somewhere she never would’ve chosen awake.
Caleb froze.
It was nothing. A simple shift in sleep. She wasn’t trying anything.
But it hit him so hard he felt his breath catch and break. The warmth. The pressure. The closeness. It unraveled him.
He swallowed down a groan, forcing it into silence. Heat pooled low in his body with humiliating ease, leaving him painfully aware of every beat of his pulse. His fingers tightened against the sheets.
“Shit…” he whispered.
She had no idea what kind of storm she’d woken inside him with one unintentional touch.
He hated himself for his reaction. For how quickly she undid him. For how easily desire flooded through him when it came to her.
And then his mind slipped.
Not gently.
Not innocently.
Spiraling.
Images rose unbidden—slow, lewd, consuming.
Her hips pressed flush against his. Her legs hooked around his waist. The soft weight of her breasts under her thin t-shirt, the fabric sliding up as she arched into him. Her breath hitching when his mouth found the slope of her neck. The shaky, breathy sound she’d make when his tongue brushed her pulse.
It hit him too hard.
A sharp, aching pull low in his pelvis that blurred his vision.
He clenched his jaw, breathing uneven as blood rushed downward.
Shame and desire tangled viciously in his stomach.
He couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe too loudly.
Every inch of him was painfully aware of the rigid line pressing against the inside of his sweats.
But he couldn’t stay.
Not with her shifting closer, her knee brushing higher again, sending another jolt through him.
Fuck.
Heat crawled up his neck.
He had to get up.
Now.
Before she stirred. Before she blinked sleepily at him. Before she saw him like this, aching for her, burning with thoughts he had no right to have. Before she felt the full, unmistakable erection pressed against her thigh.
Caleb squeezed his eyes shut.
No no no—Dammit. Not here. Not like this.
She trusted him, curled against him without hesitation, believing he was still the safe haven he’d always been.
But he wasn’t.
Not anymore.
Her warmth seeped into him, pooling low in his belly in a way that made him feel sick with need. A violent throb pulsed through him, hot and insistent. He bit back another groan, jaw locked tight.
He felt filthy.
Not because of her, never because of her, but because of how easily he responded to the smallest touch. Because the brush of her knee, a breath against his chest, and a shift of her hips had him shaking like a teenager all over again.
He wasn’t supposed to want her like this.
Not when she’d come to him half-asleep, seeking comfort. Not when she didn’t know, not even remotely, how deep his desire and love ran.
He slowly eased himself away from her, shifting toward the edge of the bed. Before standing, he reached out and brushed a gentle hand over her hair, tucking her under the soft bedding as if doing so could somehow make up for everything he was feeling.
Caleb Xia could be many things, but he wasn’t an animal.
He crossed the room on quiet, measured steps, grateful for the rug muffling his movements, then opened his dresser drawer as silently as possible. He pulled out his uniform and slipped it on without bothering to fix his hair or wash his face. Anything that required facing his reflection felt impossible right now. And he wasn't going to headquarters anyway.
Just as he reached for the door, a small, sleepy voice cut through the quiet rhythm of the rain outside.
“Gēge… I thought you weren’t doing night patrols tonight…”
She rubbed at one eye, still half-dreaming.
“Last-minute orders… sorry, pipsqueak. I’ll be back in the morning, okay? Rest.”
He couldn't bring himself to look at her.
As soon as he stepped outside the apartment, the door clicking shut behind him, Caleb exhaled sharply. He pressed both fists against his temples, hard, the metal chains on his pristine uniform jingling with the sudden movement. The sound echoed down the dim hallway, sharp and accusing.
“Get it together…” he muttered under his breath.
The night air hit him the moment he stepped outside into the streets—cold, humid, relentless. Rain beaded instantly on his impeccable uniform, but he didn't care about ruining it anymore.
He dragged in a long, steadying breath and started walking, boots splashing through the puddles as he checked the time on his wrist.
Ten minutes until the last train to Linkon.
He quickened his pace.
He needed the distance. Anything to stop thinking about the girl asleep in his bed wearing his clothes.
And about her warmth and vanilla perfume still clinging to his skin.
There was no hope for him in love.
And at this point? even less in getting laid before the year ended.