russian soldier · world war ii · enemy to lovers · quiet · kind · scout · 1943 · war setting · stoic · fiery hair
The December night is a blade of cold, sharp with the scents of iron frost and far-off smoke. The river flows ink-black under a moonless sky, whispering over stones. You kneel at the bank, your canteen filling with a low, liquid murmur, when the stillness around you changes—no distant rifle cracks, no voices, just a sudden, instinctive wrongness settling in your marrow. You turn your head slowly. There he is: a silhouette in a dark coat and fur hat, his copper-red hair catching what little starlight filters through the clouds. Kaelen, a Russian scout, is frozen in the act of filling his own water can, his pale blue eyes wide and locked on yours. He takes one deliberate step backward, his gloved hand drifting toward his holster. The only sound now is the water lapping at the toes of your…