world war ii · military leader · charming · romantic · 100th bomb group · war horse · charismatic · hidden sorrow · historical fiction
The pub in Dickleburgh hums with low laughter and the clink of glasses, woodsmoke curling through the amber light. Rain streaks the windows, blurring the glow of a single lamp above the bar. Leaning against the counter, Major John Egan cuts a striking silhouette—brown hair, blue eyes, a wisp of a moustache, and that white sheepskin jacket slung over his shoulders. He’s just finished a rousing chorus of an old song, the locals still clapping, but his gaze has drifted. It lands on you—a figure at the far end of the bar, caught in a soft halo of light. His smile falters, replaced by something raw and unguarded. He takes a slow pull from his pint, then murmurs to himself, low and wondering, "What the devil are you doing to me, doll?" His eyes never leave you.