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The café opened every morning to the same gentle routine: a stripe of sunlight across the counter by seven-thirty, the espresso machine humming contentedly, the clock above the door ticking away the seconds.
Caleb moved through the Contrail Café with a soldier’s ingrained habit of precision and patience. For him, even domestic chores had their orders, and he obeyed. No one had expected him to open a café, but here he was, proving everyone wrong.
Three months into the business, he had already broken even, though his earnings were still modest compared to his former paycheck as a colonel.
It was a world away from the way he’d been dismissed; an asset deemed obsolete after the injuries he sustained from a powerful Wanderer. EVER had offered him a quiet exit, no strings attached, so long as he stayed silent about his time as a colonel. In a heartbeat he left the military, trading his twin guns for an apron and a coffee machine.
Sometimes, he missed the sky and the weightless freedom of flight along with the challenge of chasing the horizon. These days, however, he found steadier satisfaction here on the ground.
His body had learned a new language of motion. His right hand, spared in the explosion that haunted him, performed the delicate work of shaping crema and lace. The prosthetic on his left, a sleek experimental model provided by EVER, had once felt like a betrayal of touch, denying him the ability to feel.
Over time, though, it became part of him, an extension that steadied him on the days he questioned the meaning of his existence.
On quiet mornings, with the shop empty and the hum of the machine softened to a murmur, he would flex the metal fingers to ease their occasional tremors, testing the grip of the milk frother, wondering whether embracing this quieter life had truly been worth it. He remembered a birthday celebration with her, the movie they’d watched: A Day In the life of Tata the Pilot.
Back then, he had envied how the pilot Tata got to return home safely after each flight. Now, he lived that same grounded life, but it felt less like a choice and more like his wings had been clipped.
Even the brutal efficiency of his time as a colonel had given him a purpose. He had lived like a robot traversing the treacherous DeepSpace tunnels, each mission potentially his last, yet it allowed him to fight, to protect, to stand strong next to the one who mattered most. That was what had made him feel whole.
Still, Caleb hadn’t turned down the generous payout that came with his retirement. Where others lost themselves in cozy games, he found his reset in the real world; a chance to start over and give his days a gentler meaning. He could have gone back to Skyhaven, to the home he’d left behind, but instead he chose Linkon. Opening a café here let him put his recipes to use, but more than that, it meant he could stay close to her, even if neither of them said it aloud. As his gaze swept across the space he’d built, he realized every nook and cranny carried a trace of her too, whether she knew it or not.
A neat pile of apples always sat on the counter as part of the café’s décor: tart greens here, sweet reds there. He’d loved them since boyhood, when he used to peel them for her, offering a slice shaped like bunny ears as if it were a rare treat.
But his Pipsqueak, being the brat she was, was never satisfied for long. Her demands soon escalated to elaborate swans, stars, and even dragons, leaving him to wonder if she was teasing him or simply had boundless faith in his skills.
Cooking for her had made him attentive. He’d taken chef duties since they were children, and it had trained him to notice the smallest preferences — like her taste for an extra-crisp crust. She once tried to prank him with impossibly sour lemon candies, a joke that backfired when he developed a genuine fondness for the flavour.
He discovered how a pinch of cardamom could elevate the taste of cinnamon and committed such details to memory for future desserts. Those observations had shaped a refined palate that would surprise anyone who only knew the stern colonel.
His signature dish was the Contrail’s apple gallette: thin-sliced apples fanned over buttery pastry, a hint of lemon jam, a scatter of toasted oats, finished with warm caramel and just a whisper of cardamom. The tartness cut through his strong brews, while the caramel softened their edge.
He had created it for rainy afternoons and quiet conversations, when his Pipsqueak came home from school peckish but preoccupied. As a teenager, her worries were difficult to pry loose so he had to contend with her grunts and nods.
Caleb hadn’t known then that his very existence was one of them. This was clearly visible especially on the days where he came home soaked to the bone, his shirt transparent and clinging to every ridge of muscle. What had been an accident back then was now a strategy. If it made her look, made her flustered, then good. Let her be distracted by him.
His greed on that point was absolute: his Pipsqueak’s attention would be on him, or on no one at all. The alternative — being forgotten — was not an option.
As for coffee, purportedly the café’s true attraction, his brews were not for everyone. Caleb preferred stronger pulls, running his espresso shots a fraction longer than recommended. The result was dense, concentrated and bold. Some called it clean and smoky; others called it death’s brew, swearing the murky colour alone was intimidating.
That said, Caleb wasn’t inflexible. For a few selected drinks, he made exceptions. His lattes were delicate, and as for his tea… well, his tea was a category of one. He’d perfected a single, bright lemon blend ironically dubbed Pipsqueak’s Delight. It was his pièce de résistance and their unspoken favorite. It was also the menu’s sole tea offering. Regulars often begged him to expand, but Caleb held firm. He believed in mastering one thing perfectly. A dozen mediocre infusions couldn't compare to one flawless steep.
The bell above the door chimed. She stepped in, hair damp from the rain, her eyes clearer than they’d been the day before — a sign she’d recovered from her latest shift as a Hunter. One hand was tucked behind her back, her whole posture humming with nervous energy. Caleb debated whether to tease her into revealing what she was hiding.
“Mornin’,” he greeted, his smile small but genuine. A cup of tea was already waiting on the counter — today, a steaming Pipsqueak’s Delight.
She leaned a hip against the counter, eyes gleaming with familiar mischief, mimicking the tone he used whenever she tossed a paper plane in his direction. “I should be charging royalties for this concoction. You can’t just name things after me without my permission.”
Caleb rolled his eyes and slid her a gallette as a bribe. She accepted it instantly, smirking at the bonus. Prodding at it with her fork, she nodded in approval. “You added cardamom to the cinnamon blend.” “I added it in small measures so even the pickiest eater wouldn’t notice.”
Noting his teasing tone, she fired back the one suggestion guaranteed to trigger him. “If spice is what you’re aiming for, you might as well swap it with coriander.”
Caleb’s face soured instantly.
“Don’t even joke about that. Coriander tastes like soap and ruins a dessert’s soul.”
Her laughter rang bright in the café. “Oh, the look on your face! Remember that shack in Skyhaven? You picked every single cilantro leaf out of those beef noodles. Took you twenty minutes.” “And the meal was better for it,” he replied with mock dignity. “Some of us have superior taste receptors.” “Right. This from the man who tells me not to nitpick food? I see what you’re doing, Colonel, and I’m not falling for it.”
He chuckled, then shifted gears. “I drew a Sunny Apple in chocolate syrup on your plate. What do you think? Do I pass inspection?” Her eyes lit up at the doodle. She gave him a dramatic thumbs-up. “Finally, you understand good service! I’ll give this place five stars — watch out, you’ll be swamped with customers.” “Yeah, yeah. With your review alone I’ll put Café Cloud out of business and start opening branches.”
Their exchange grew playful, but he noticed her gaze darting, her hidden hand still tucked away. The warmth in his eyes betrayed him as he nodded toward it. “So? What’ve you got for me? Don’t tell me it’s a money plant. You’re always telling me I need to make more money.”
Her smile flickered shyly as she brought her hand forward, revealing two brightly colored tickets. “Not quite. There’s a vintage vehicle exhibit — airships, zeppelins, old ground runners. I thought… maybe we could go? Together?” Her fingers brushed the ticket edges. Caleb leaned closer with a hum of approval but kept his face unreadable, enjoying her nervousness.
Before he could answer, she filled the silence with mock outrage, tapping the pastry case. “You know, I still can’t believe you’re letting everyone taste your apple desserts now. For years they were my thing. And now anyone in Linkon can just buy them?”
“Not true,” he said evenly. “Not true? You’ve got galettes lined up right there, Colonel. Anyone with a sweet tooth can have them.” He folded his arms, smug. “Those are crostatas. What I make for you are galettes. Different technique, different ratios. Crostatas are for customers. Galettes are yours.”
“They’re basically the same thing,” she huffed, clenching her fists. His mouth curved into a dangerous smile. “If you think a rustic, free-form galette is the same as a structured crostata, then clearly, I’ve been slacking in your education. Next you’ll tell me an Americano tastes the same as an espresso because they both start the same way.”
Her gasp was scandalized. “You did not just compare me to a coffee amateur. I’ll have you know I scored a perfect hundred on OTTO’s ‘How Well Do You Know Coffee’ quiz.” “Sure, Pipsqueak,” he drawled, sliding a crostata onto a plate and setting it in front of her.
“But remember, yours will always be different. That’s an original, made especially for your… delicate tastebuds.” That softened her, though she muttered, “You’re impossible.” “And you’re spoiled,” Caleb said with quiet satisfaction. “But I suppose I made you that way. Especially since you’re worried, I haven’t answered your invitation.”
She lifted her chin. “So? What will it be then?” He reached across the counter, his right hand covering hers. The prosthetic rested beside her tea, no longer a symbol of loss but of survival. “Yeah,” he said softly, voice almost private.
“I’d like that.”
Relief bloomed across her face, her smile full and unguarded. Outside, the rain eased to a drizzle. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a sharply dressed young man crossing the sidewalk toward the café's door. Caleb followed her gaze and sighed. "Speak of the devil," he muttered. "My nine-thirty regular has impeccable timing." She laughed, the last of her nervous energy dissolving. "Then you'd better put on your business smile, Colonel."
The first customer of the day came in grumbling about the weather, ordering a crostata and that “lemon tea with the funny name.” Caleb excused himself with a look that promised he wasn't done. He served the customer with practiced ease and a bit of banter, then returned to her side, the quiet intimacy settling back over them like a blanket.
With a glint in his eye, he reached into his apron pocket and placed two glossy invitations on the counter: a dessert buffet at one of Linkon’s most exclusive hotels.
She blinked, then laughed. “You planned something too?”
His smile was lopsided, dry with humour. “Back when I was a colonel, you told me I kept avoiding you. Now it seems we’re finding excuses to be in each other’s orbit all the time.” Her laughter rose again, softer this time, threaded with warmth.
“So… a vintage vehicle exhibit and a dessert buffet. Our weekend’s going to be packed. Who would’ve thought we were acting like strangers just a year ago?” “Or,” Caleb countered, voice low and fond, “we’ve finally stopped letting labels define us.”
Between the scent of tea and apples, they leaned together over the counter, knowing without saying that this time, they would not be parted—not by fate, nor circumstance, nor any force on earth.