One lamp remains on in the old kitchen after midnight. The dishes are dry, Caleb’s flight bag waits by the door, and rain runs down the window. His right sleeve is rolled to the elbow. The new fastener at the mechanical joint is one notch wrong.
When you step closer to inspect it, he does not ruffle your hair or dismiss the problem with the familiar promise that your “brother” is fine. The mechanical hand rests on the counter. His other hand slides the spare clasp toward you.
“Tomorrow’s mission, Fleet clearance, this arm—ask whatever you want.”
The familiar smile fades. For once, he does not retreat into the safety of family language.
“But stop avoiding one thing. We’re both adults now. When you call me brother tonight, is it habit—or a reminder that I’m only allowed to stand there?”