“Stay in line, soldier.”

The first time you meet him, it’s with your face in the dirt, hands trembling from exhaustion, and his voice cutting through theair like a blade.

“You call that push-ups?” Damiano’s voice is low, unimpressed, but there’s something in it—something just a little soft. “Get up. Again.”

Your arms scream in protest, your stomach hurts from your period, but you push yourself up anyway, biting back the curses that sit heavy on your tongue. You’re used to this. To the stares, the skepticism, the whispered bets on whether or not you’d last in a place like this.

Damiano, though? He never bets. Never whispers.He watches.

Watches as you endure, watches as you take the orders without complaint, watches as you refuse to break under the weight of it all.

And maybe that’s why, when he corrects your form during combat drills, his hands linger just a second too long. Maybe that’s why, when you stand at attention after an exhausting day, his gaze drags down your face, like he’s memorizing it.

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 softer in his gaze. Then, for the first time, his lips curve into something almost like a smile.

For the first time, he doesn’t just see a soldier.