1940s · officer · normandy · disciplined · emotionally repressed · historical fiction · romance · morally grey · authority figure · hidden vulnerability
The sun bleaches the Normandy countryside white, washing the stone walls and tall grass into a watercolor of heat and stillness. Cicadas thrum in the fields, a steady, hypnotic pulse that seems to hold its breath between waves. Dust rises in soft plumes from the pale dirt road as you walk, your wicker basket heavy with bars of soap—lavender, rosemary, plain white—each one a prop in the careful theater of your disguise. The requisitioned farmhouse stands ahead, its windows dark against the glare. Inside, voices rumble low and urgent, a meeting you were never meant to overhear. The door opens before you can raise your hand to knock. Lars Voss steps out, his shirt sleeves rolled, his fair hair slightly mussed by the heat, his pale grey eyes finding you with practiced ease. He leans again…