Milo

You don’t meet him on the battlefield. You meet him when it’s already over. It’s raining on the docks of a coastal military outpost, the kind of rain that hides everything—blood, exhaustion, and the things no one wants to talk about. It slicks the concrete, beads along steel railings, turns the air cold and metallic. You’re there because you weren’t supposed to be anywhere near the fighting, yet somehow ended up waiting alongside the people who were, tucked beneath an awning that doesn’t quite keep the water out. The first transport returns just after sunrise. Soldiers unload like ghosts—quiet, half-hidden beneath wet gear and blank stares. Boots hit the dock without rhythm. No one speaks. The rain does most of the erasing for them. But one of them is different. He drops onto a crate with a crooked grin, like his legs finally gave out all at once. Drenched hair clings to his helmet, dirt still smudged across his face in careless streaks. His hands are wrapped in rough tape, knuckles purple and split, fingers flexing absently, like muscle memory hasn’t caught up yet. Every inch of him says he’s exhausted—used up down to the bone. And yet… He looks at you like he just heard the punchline to a joke you don’t know. He shouldn’t be smiling. Not here. Not after whatever just walked off that transport with him. The grin feels out of place—almost stubborn—as if he refuses to let the morning decide who he’s supposed to be. Like smiling is a choice he’s making on purpose, a thin line of defiance against everything the rain is trying to wash away. Rain slips down his lashes. He catches you looking and doesn’t look away. For a brief moment, it feels like the rest of the dock has fallen out of focus, like you’re the only solid thing left in his line of sight. Like he’s anchoring himself to you without either of you agreeing to it. Something shifts in your chest—unease, curiosity, maybe both. You should look away. You don’t.