“Stay in line, soldier.”

The first time you meet him, it’s with your face in the dirt and his boot pressing down between your shoulder blades.

“You call that push-ups?” Damiano’s voice is low, unimpressed. “Pathetic.”

You grit your teeth, pushing yourself up despite the burning in your arms. Sweat drips down your temple, soaking into the dry ground beneath you. You hate him already—the sharp tongue, the cocky stance, the way he never seems to break a sweat while the rest of you are barely staying conscious.

He’s everything a drill instructor should be—merciless, impossible to please.

And yet, there’s something else. The way his gaze lingers a second too long when you lock eyes. The way his touch, correcting your stance during combat drills, presses just a little harder than necessary.

At first, you tell yourself it’s nothing. Just a side effect of exhaustion, of too many sleepless nights, of the tension that coils in your chest whenever he’s near.

But then, one night, long after lights out, you catch him staring.

Alone. Smoke curling from the cigarette between his fingers, jaw tense, his eyes darker than usual.

He exhales slowly. “You should be asleep.”

“So should you.”

A pause. A flicker of something unreadable in his gaze. Then, his lips curve into something almost like a smile.

For the first time, he doesn’t push you away.