Recovery was not gentle.
It wasn't romantic, or easy, or heroic.
It was pain.
It was frustration.
It was waking up shaking because his head hurt so deeply he couldn't think straight.
It was feeling weak in a body that once carried armor, weapons, responsibility.
Ethan hated it.
Sofia didn't let him hide it.
She was there when the doctor explained the impact of the blast trauma. She was there when Ethan tried sitting up for the first time and nearly blacked out. She was there through the headaches that cut through him like knives.
When he growled in frustration—
When he snapped at the nurses—
When he slammed his fist weakly against the bed—
She stayed.
"You don't have to pretend with me," she whispered one morning as she placed a cool cloth on his forehead.
"I'm not pretending," he muttered.
"You are." She sat on the edge of the bed, fingers brushing his hand. "You think you're supposed to be the strong one. But I don't need that."
He looked at her, eyes tired—more tired than any soldier his age should ever look.
"What do you need?" he asked quietly.
Sofia's thumb traced small circles on the back of his hand.
"You. Alive. That's all."
Ethan swallowed hard, the words hitting deeper than she realized.
He turned away, staring at the ceiling. "I hate that you see me like this."
"I love that I see you," she said gently.
He blinked.
Sofia leaned closer. "Italy wasn't about how strong you looked. And this won't be either. I'm not here because you're heroic. I'm here because you're mine."
Ethan's breath caught.
Hers did too.
Silence stretched between them, soft but powerful.
"I don't want to be a burden," he whispered.
Sofia tightened her hold on his hand. "You're not. You never could be."
He didn't answer—but his hand curled around hers, pulling her slightly closer.
---
By the third day, Ethan was moved from the medical wing to a rehabilitation unit at the base. Soldiers walked the halls. Officers passed by. The scent of coffee drifted from the cafeteria.
But every time Sofia walked next to him—helping him, steadying him—heads turned.
Some whispered.
Some stared too long.
Most were surprised.
No one expected her here—a beautiful Italian woman who looked like she stepped out of a painting, holding hands with a recovering American soldier.
When Ethan walked slowly down the hall with Sofia supporting him, two soldiers leaned against the wall, watching.
"Lucky bastard," one muttered under his breath.
"Who is she? His wife?"
"No idea. But damn…"
Ethan stiffened.
Sofia noticed immediately and shifted closer, keeping her grip steady.
"You okay?" she asked softly.
He nodded faintly. "Just… used to being invisible. Not whatever this is."
Sofia gave a small smile. "You're not invisible to me."
He met her eyes, and for a brief moment, the world faded around them.
---
As the days passed, therapy began in earnest.
Ethan was pushed harder—learning to regain balance, to walk without dizziness, to breathe without pain tightening his ribs.
Sofia attended every session.
She held the water bottle.
She encouraged him through every step.
She touched his arm when frustration surged.
She whispered, "Slow down. You don't have to prove anything."
But Ethan felt the pressure building.
One afternoon, halfway through physical therapy, the strain snapped inside him.
He stumbled, braced himself against the wall, and cursed under his breath.
"Again," he growled at the therapist.
"You need a break," the therapist warned.
"I said again."
Sofia stepped forward, worry lining her face. "Ethan—"
"Don't," he snapped.
The room went silent.
His therapist stepped back slightly, giving them space.
Sofia frowned. "You're pushing too hard."
"I'm fine."
"You're not."
"I said I'm fine!"
Sofia flinched—not from fear, but from the pain in his voice.
Ethan pushed off the wall, frustrated with himself, with his weakness, with everything he couldn't control.
"Sofia, I need—"
"Don't tell me to leave," she whispered.
He froze.
Her voice trembled, but her stance was steady.
"I'm not going," she said. "No matter how hard you push me away."
Ethan shut his eyes tightly, swaying slightly from dizziness.
Sofia stepped closer, placing a hand on his cheek—soft, grounding, steady.
"You're allowed to struggle," she whispered. "But you're not allowed to face it alone."
He leaned into her touch, breath uneven.
The therapist quietly excused them from further exercises, leaving them alone in the corner of the room.
Ethan dropped onto the bench, hands shaking. Sofia sat beside him.
He looked at her, guilt flooding his expression.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
Sofia took his hand. "You don't owe me an apology. You're hurt. You're frustrated. I get it."
He shook his head. "I shouldn't take it out on you."
She leaned her head against his shoulder. "You can lean on me. Just don't shove me away."
He closed his eyes, exhaling the tension he'd held for days.
"I don't know how to be weak," he confessed quietly.
Sofia lifted her head, turning him gently to face her.
"You're not weak," she said firmly. "You're healing."
He swallowed. "I feel useless."
"You're alive." Her voice wavered, raw with emotion. "That's everything to me."
Ethan stared at her, the truth in her eyes breaking through every wall he'd built.
And for the first time since the explosion… he allowed himself to breathe.
He let her see him shaken.
He let her see him uncertain.
He let her see him human.
And Sofia kissed his forehead gently, whispering, "Whatever it takes… I'm not leaving."
---
Outside the therapy room, someone cleared their throat.
Camila leaned against the doorframe, watching them with soft eyes.
"You two done causing chaos?" she teased.
Ethan cracked a smile. "Maybe."
Sofia intertwined her fingers with his. "We're okay."
Camila nodded, relieved. "Good. Because the whole base is starting to bet on whether you'll walk properly before the week is over."
"What?" Sofia gasped.
Camila grinned. "Oh yeah. You've become the unofficial couple everyone's watching."
Ethan groaned. "Great."
Sofia giggled and rested her head on his shoulder.
Camila looked at them for a long moment—sadness gone, replaced by something peaceful.
"You're good for him," she said softly to Sofia.
Sofia squeezed Ethan's hand. "He's good for me too."
Camila nodded. "I know."
And with that, she walked off, letting them breathe.
---
Later that evening, as the sun dipped beyond the dunes, Ethan lay in bed, exhausted from therapy. Sofia sat beside him, her fingers tracing idle patterns on his arm.
"Can I ask you something?" she whispered.
"Anything."
"After Italy… why did you never reach out? Not once?"
He looked up at the ceiling, breathing slowly.
"Because I thought you were better off without me."
Her heart tightened.
"And because I thought I had nothing to offer you," he continued. "No money. No stability. No future. Just… odd jobs and uncertainty."
Sofia leaned closer. "Ethan, I never wanted perfection. I wanted you."
He closed his eyes, her words cutting deeper than any wound.
She leaned in until their foreheads touched.
"When you left," he whispered, "I joined the military because I needed purpose. I needed something to believe in."
"And now?" she asked.
He opened his eyes.
And softly, honestly—
"You."
Sofia kissed him. Softly. Slowly. Carefully, mindful of his injuries.
When she pulled away, her voice trembled with affection.
"I'm staying until you go home. And after that… wherever home is for you… I want to be part of it."
Ethan's chest tightened.
"Are you sure?"
"I've never been more sure of anything."
He swallowed, emotion thick in his throat. "Then stay. Please."
"I will."
She nestled into him, and he wrapped an arm around her—gentle, protective.
For the first time in months, he felt whole.
In her arms, the world stopped hurting.
And in his, she felt found.