Rows upon rows of freshly graduated soldiers stood motionless, backs rigid, hands locked at their sides. Somewhere among them, Damiano was waiting.

You scanned the crowd, your heart hammering. It had been weeks—weeks of silence, of letters, of wondering if the military had changed him beyond recognition. But now, as you stepped onto the parade ground, the reality hit you. He was finally coming home.

Your feet carried you forward, weaving through the crowd of families, each of them searching for their own. And then, you saw him.

Damiano stood in his uniform at perfect attention, his jaw locked, eyes staring straight ahead. But you could see the tension in his stance, the way his fingers twitched slightly, the way his breath hitched as you approached. He knew you were here. He was waiting for you.

You swallowed, then reached out. The moment your hand touched his shoulder, before you could say a word, his arms were around you, crushing you against his chest with a force that stole your breath. He was shaking. His heartbeat pounded against your own, his grip desperate, unrelenting.

"Dami—"

"Don’t," he cut you off, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. His fingers dug into your back as he buried his face against your hair, inhaling like he was trying to ground himself, like he still couldn’t believe this was real.

You clung to him just as hard, your hands fisting into his uniform. He was finally free.