The wheels of my duffel bag rumbled across the terminal floor, too loud, too noticeable. My prosthetic leg felt heavy beneath me, the metal and plastic a reminder of everything I’d lost. My right hand tightened on the crutch, the only thing keeping me upright.

The flight had been long. Too long. But now that I was here, back on American soil, the rest of the world felt distant, muffled. The steady hum of the airport didn’t comfort me like it used to. Instead, it made my heart beat harder, faster.

She wasn’t here yet. I kept telling myself I’d be fine, that I’d keep it together when I saw her again. But the closer I got to the exit, the harder it was to believe that. Every step felt like a test.

I forced my mind away from the thought of her, focusing instead on the hum of my crutch against the floor. I had trained my body to move in rhythm with it, but my brain couldn’t quite keep up. Two years of military service, and this? This was the hardest part.

I turned the corner and saw the exit doors up ahead. My breath hitched. God, what if she can’t even look at me?

It was stupid to be nervous. I knew that. I had seen soldiers come back from worse, seen men with nothing but scars and limbs they could barely call their own, and they still found love waiting for them. They were still wanted.

But that was them, not me.

I stopped, gripping the crutch tighter. The prosthetic leg shifted, and I almost stumbled. My chest tightened as I steadied myself, focusing on the pain in my ribs, the phantom ache from my old life.

It had been two years. The way I looked, the way I moved, had all changed. I couldn’t just... pretend it was the same anymore. It wasn’t.

And then she appeared.

Her silky hair caught in the soft light coming through the glass, just like I remembered. She was beautiful. More beautiful than I had any right to expect. And I...

I wasn’t that guy anymore.

Her eyes found mine, a flash of recognition, hesitation. It hit me like a punch to the gut. She was seeing me for the first time. Really seeing me