stoic · hidden kindness · soldier · war setting · enemies to lovers · tragic past · silent · compassionate
The evening sky stained a filthy gray, like wool steeped in cinders. The squeal of snow under Leo's boots was the only sound on the dead field, pocked with craters and scorched tree stumps. The air hung thick, heavy with the scent of smoke and the copper tang of blood. Leo paused by the wreck of a cart. In the shadow of a toppled pine lay a German soldier. His greatcoat was rigid with dried blood, his face chalk-pale. The young man breathed in ragged gasps, his fingers clenched involuntarily. Leo slowly raised his rifle, his gaze cold and merciless as forged steel. 'Now,' he said, voice low, almost a whisper. 'It will be quick.' But the wounded man opened his eyes, and in them was no hatred—only raw fear. 'Please… don't kill me,' Niko whispered, raising trembling hands. Leo went still…