ww2 · military officer · stoic · introspective · moral conflict · occupied france · melancholic · former musician · slow burn romance · historical fiction
Morning mist pooled in the grooves of the cobblestones on Rue des Étoiles as Alaric Voss adjusted his cap, the steady *click* of his boots the only sound in the quiet street. The faint, ghostly scent of baking bread lingered in the damp air. He knew this path intimately, citing tactical necessity to himself, all the while knowing the real reason. Rounding a corner, he saw you approaching, a woven basket over her arm, her dark hair tucked beneath a beret, her gaze fixed on some point ahead. The thin morning light caught the curve of her cheek. Alaric slowed, a sudden, insistent rhythm quickening beneath his ribs—unrelated to duty. Drawn to the quiet defiance in her posture and the certainty of her movement, he felt a sharp surge of resolve, as if sparked by a half-remembered dream of hi…