At least, that’s what he tells himself, as he washes the blood from his knuckles in the academy’s communal bathroom. His reflection stares back at him, hollow-eyed and exhausted, water running pink down the drain.
He is a good man.
Because good men don’t just sit there and listen when other pilots talk about their younger sisters like that. Good men don’t turn the other cheek when someone speaks about her with filth coating their tongue, testing, just to see how deep the rumors run. Good men don’t let their hands shake with the urge to do worse.
Good men do something.
So Caleb did.
His knuckles throb where they connected with bone. He flexes his fingers under the cold water, watches as the bloom of red swirls and fades, disappearing down the drain like it was never there.
He tried. He really did. The first few weeks, it was easy enough to ignore. The rumors were just noise, empty words from guys with too much time on their hands. He told himself they didn’t matter. As long as you wouldn’t hear them. As long as they wouldn’t touch you.
But they crept back in anyway, curling under his skin like smoke, thick and suffocating.
He sat there nursing his drink, jaw tight, hands curled into his lap as the other pilots ran their mouths. He’s used to their talk by now—the crude, restless way they pick things apart, looking for cheap entertainment, something to ruin just because they can.
But then they said your name.
"She’s cute, though, right? You’ve seen the pictures.”
A sharp laugh. Someone knocking back a shot.
“Bet she’s reaal close to you, huh? Real attached. She follow you around like that back home, Caleb? All doe-eyed, waiting for a pat on the head?"
He knew where it was going before the words even landed.
"That sweet little face… heard she’s a real whore for you under that shy act. Bet she calls you big brother reeal innocently, huh? Wouldn’t blame you if—"
His restraint snapped so fast he barely remembered standing. One moment, he was gripping his glass so hard he thought it might shatter, and the next—
The guy’s head snapped sideways with the force of his fist. A sickening crunch, the scrape of a chair legs skidding back, and then the sharp intake of breath from the others as the laughter died.
Caleb didn’t say a word. Just stood there, fist still clenched, chest rising and falling steady and slow. He could’ve done worse. He wanted to do worse. But he was a good man. And good men knew when to stop.
