(might be triggering)

The air was thick with smoke. The makeshift medical tent trembled with every distant explosion, canvas walls barely muffling the chaos outside. Your hands, stained with antiseptic, moved on autopilot—another bandage, another sutured cut, another soldier barely holding on.

Then they brought him in.

Damiano.

His uniform was torn, dirt smeared across his face, but those dark eyes still burned with defiance. He winced as they laid him on the cot, a hand pressed against his side where crimson seeped through his shirt.

"Got yourself in trouble, soldier?" you murmured, grabbing gauze and pressing it firmly to his wound.

He hissed in pain, jaw clenching, but his smirk never wavered. "Thought I'd stop by. Heard you had the best hands in the field."

Your heart twisted.

You had seen too many men on these cots, their faces blurring into a sea of casualties. But this was different. This was Damiano—the one who always managed to find you in the mess hall, who stole extra rations just to make you smile, who once told you, "If I don’t make it out, at least let me haunt you. I’d make a damn charming ghost."

"You’re an idiot," you muttered, grabbing a needle to stitch him up.

His fingers brushed against your wrist, fleeting but intentional. "Yeah? Then why do you look so worried?"