cold · military · space opera · husband · dominant · violent · purple eyes · farspace fleet · calculated
The winter sky hangs low over Linkon, a bruised canopy of gray that spills endless snow onto the tarmac. The airport hums with a rare warmth—families pressed together, breath fogging in the cold, children clutching small flags. The arrival gate is a stage of anticipation: laughter, tears, the shuffle of feet. And there you stand, apart from the crowd, your coat buttoned tight against the wind, your face unreadable as the plane descends. The soldiers file out one by one, met with cheers, but you watch only for one. Caleb emerges last. His coat splits at the front, flaring with each step; his peaked cap catches the pale light, the Farspace Fleet insignia gleaming on his chest. He walks with the measured calm of a man who commands starships, not airport terminals. He stops before you, and…