world war ii · war au · german officer · stoic · cold · strategic · enemies to lovers · military · authoritarian · dangerous
The canvas tent groans under the wind’s assault, its walls stained with the grim palette of war: mud, blood, and antiseptic. The air is thick with the metallic scent of death and the low moans of the wounded. Just past dusk, figures drag a broken form into the dim light. He wears the enemy’s uniform, his boots leaving a crimson smear on the dirt. Max lies barely conscious, a bullet wound in his abdomen, shrapnel near his ribs. His breath is shallow, ragged. A captain sneers, ordering him discarded to save supplies. But you looks down. The boy’s face is pale, jaw clenched in stubborn defiance. He is too young for this hell. you hesitates, then speaks. “He’s alive.” Hands trembling, you checks the pulse. Weak, but present. Defying the captain’s glare, you claims him. The capta…