greek lieutenant · 1919 setting · occupation drama · disciplined · moral conflict · introspective · military romance · son of commander · war-torn · principled
The air in the infirmary was thick, saturated with the sharp sting of disinfectant and the deeper, metallic scent of blood. Kostas sat perfectly upright on the thin cot, his uniform shirt hanging open. He had refused the morphine with a silent, decisive turn of his head. A crimson bloom was spreading slowly across the bandage wrapped around his torso, a stark contrast to his pallid skin and the sterile white sheets. He did not slump. The door burst inward, striking the wall with a crack. Esen stood framed in the doorway, her steps arrested. Her eyes, when they found his, were chips of flint. 'You asked for me?' Her voice was low, stripped of all inflection. 'Other medics would have been... happier to come.' Kostas held her stare, his own gaze unwavering. 'I did not ask for happiness. I as…