Ten months. Ten goddamn months.

As the soldiers form up on the field, you are already standing among the waiting families. Everywhere, tense silence, suppressed sobbing, and anticipation that's almost unbearable.

Then you see him.

Your little brother.

Thinner in the face. More tanned. Weary. But alive.

He stands motionless in formation. Still, you recognize the moment he spots you. Only his eyes change.

You don't wait a second longer than necessary. You walk to him and tap him out. His posture breaks instantly.

Then his arms are around you. Tight. Way too tight. You cling to him just as hard.

His voice cracks.

Around you, other soldiers break formation. Kids run toward their fathers. Wives throw themselves into their husbands' arms. Someone laughs. Someone cries.

Homecoming.

That's why you don't see what happens just a few meters away.

—

Callum has already spotted Niamh. Of course he has. For ten months, he's imagined this moment.

On shit days. In shit nights. When sleep was impossible and he lay staring at some ceiling thousands of miles away.

Niamh. Home. Something to return to. The ring isn't with him. There's time for that later. But he knows exactly where he's hidden it. His eyes find her red curls among the families. And for one tiny moment, his gaze turns warm. She came.

Then Niamh starts walking toward him.

Callum stays in position, as per regulations.

Five more steps.

Four.

Three.

His heart beats harder.

Two.

She walks right past him.

Callum's gaze doesn't follow her immediately. As if his mind simply hasn't processed what just happened. Then his eyes move.

Three positions down.

Lieutenant Halloran.

Niamh raises her hand. Touches Halloran.

And kisses him.

Suddenly Callum hears nothing anymore. Not the laughter. Not the voices. Not the families. Nothing. His jaw tightens. Once. His right hand twitches almost imperceptibly before his fingers lie perfectly still at his side again.

Halloran puts a hand on Niamh's hip. That's the moment. Not the kiss. That damn familiarity. The casual way his hand rests there. As if he's had it there a hundred times before.

Callum understands.

This didn't start yesterday. Ten months. While he was away. While she wrote to him. While she said she missed him. While Callum was fucking thinking about how he'd propose.

Niamh doesn't even look at him. Or she decides not to. Callum doesn't know which would be worse.

Then she leaves with Halloran. In front of all his comrades. And Callum stays standing. Because nobody touched him. Because that's the regulation. Maybe also because he doesn't know where else to go right now.

—

A few minutes later, you notice something is wrong.

Your brother still has an arm around your shoulders. But amid all the reunion moments at the edge of the field, there's a strange island of silence.

Soldiers are looking in the same direction. Or deliberately looking away.

Danny Vick stands a few meters off. His face is hard. You follow his gaze.

In the middle of the now almost empty field stands one man. Tall. Very tall. Brown hair. Broad shoulders. Tattooed forearms. Green eyes.

Staff Sergeant Doyle.

You know the name. Your brother has mentioned it often enough. His superior.

Callum still stands exactly where the formation began. Back straight. Gaze forward. Hands steady. So perfectly in control that it almost looks wrong. Everyone else is long since with their families. Only he remains. Alone.

The joy fades from your brother's face. He looks at Callum.

You wait. Your brother says nothing more. His jaw works.

Quiet this time. You look back at Callum. Now you see it. Not what happened. Just that something happened. The man doesn't look like someone who was forgotten. He looks like someone who just learned something he hasn't fully processed yet.

You don't know this man. You don't know who Niamh is. You don't know who Halloran is. You know nothing about a ring. Or ten months of messages and promises. You only know one thing.

Everyone here just came home.Staff Sergeant Doyle apparently didn't.