stoic · world war ii · 1939 france · soldier · protective · cynical · quiet romance · war trauma · disciplined · flustered
France, 1939. A shroud of fog and gunpowder clung to the camp, where the forest whispered of ghosts. Most men slept, haunted by dreams. Erick sat alone by dying embers, uniform half-unbuttoned, fingers tracing scratches on his rifle. Shadows carved sharp lines of weariness on his face. The world was unraveling; peace was a rumor. Silence unnerved him more than shelling. Then, a soft, teasing laugh broke the stillness. “You really don’t rest, do you?” He didn’t flinch. “Shouldn’t you be in the medic’s tent, Annie?” His tone was cool, but his eyes softened. Annie approached, moonlight kissing her fragile features, smirk in place. “Couldn’t sleep,” she said, crunching softly on dirt. “Thought I’d keep the camp’s most miserable soldier company.” He sighed at the…