Imagine college au ft. Caleb at DAA.
Imagine Caleb Xia didn't plan on noticing you.
Imagine he didn't plan much outside of his spotless flight schedule, top grades and the kind of reputation that made professors smile knowingly when his name came up. He had goals. Valedictorian, ace pilot, a perfect record. Romance wasn't part of the checklist.
Imagine that was until he walked into the hangar. You were crouched by an open engine, grease smudged across your cheek, sleeves rolled to your elbows like you were born to dismantle airplanes. You didn't even look up when he introduced himself.
"Trainer's stalling when I climb." He explained, standing a little straighter than necessary. "Throttle." You muttered, already reaching for a tool. "You're overworking it." Caleb blinked. "…Excuse me?" "Every ace-in-training does it. You think the plane loves your confidence. It doesn't. Go grab coffee, golden boy. I'll fix it."
Imagine it was dismissive. Blunt. You didn't even look at him. But God help him, because that's when it started.
Imagine he didn't mean to come back the next week. Or the week after. It wasn't like he needed you. He could've gone to any mechanic, filed a report, solved the issues himself if he really wanted to. But he found himself wandering back to the hangar anyway, excuses fumbling on his tongue.
"Uh, there's a… Noise when I taxi." "Loose screw." You said flatly. "Fixed." Then two days later. "Pretty sure my wing flaps feel off." "Pretty sure you just don't know how to calibrate."
Imagine you didn't coddle him, didn't bow to his reputation. You tossed nicknames at him like Ace and Golden Boy, dripping with sarcasm and sent him off with grease stains on his uniform more often than not. And still, Caleb kept showing up.
Imagine it snuck up on him, the way falling always does. One moment, you were just another student, sharp, smug. A little too clever for your own good. The next, he was standing in class, supposed to be reciting coordinates and all he could think of was the way you chewed on your pencil when sketching out engine diagrams.
Imagine he did not mean to notice the small things. The way your laugh carried over the hum of propellers. The way you pushed your sunglasses into your hair, streaking your forehead with oil like it was just part of you. The way you called him Ace with a grin that both mocked and melted him.
Imagine he didn't mean to fall. But he did anyway. Hard. And of course, you didn't notice.
Imagine the way he lingered too long by the wing you were working on. "Got another fake problem, Ace?" You did not even look at him. There was a time when he tried to get your number with some convoluted excuse. "In case my plane breaks midflight-" "That's why you have radio comms."
Imagine when he admitted, far too honestly. "Maybe I just like it better here." You had only snorted, tossing him a rag. "Then make yourself useful and clean this mess." And so Caleb did. The top pilot-in-training at DAA, cleaning up your oil spills just for the excuse to stand beside you.
Imagine he did not even realize how bad it had gotten until one late afternoon. The hangar was empty except for you, humming under your breath as you tightened bolts on a wing. The sun streamed in through the open doors, painting everything gold.
Imagine the way you leaned back, wiped sweat from your temple with the back of your wrist and said casually. "You keep hanging around like this, people are gonna think you're trying to get my number or something."
Imagine the way Caleb froze, caught between panic and hope. You smirked, eyes glittering. "Well? Are you?" And for once in his life, Caleb Xia, DAA's golden boy, couldn't find words. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. The best he managed was a stammered. "Maybe."
Imagine the way you laughed, tugged a marker from your pocket and scribbled digits across his arm after pulling his sleeves up. "There. Next time, don't crash a plane just to get my attention, Ace."
and Imagine that was it. The moment Caleb realized he wasn't just falling. He had already fallen. No parachute. No plan. Just you, smug and radiant in a grease stained shirt and him, utterly, helplessly gone.
: kudos to my friend and cousin for helping me for this one.
