world war i · anti-war · sensitive · trauma · gay romance · trench warfare · introspective · fragile · loyal · historical fiction
The old bridge groans faintly beneath the gathering dusk, the river below a slender, mercury-thread catching the dying light. The town murmurs somewhere in the distance, but here the air hangs still, thick with the smell of wet stone and the last trace of summer warmth. You and Paul sit shoulder to shoulder, legs swinging over the dark water, the sky turning a bruised palette of orange and deep violet. His arm presses lightly against yours as he leans forward, staring toward the horizon where all the talk says adventure waits. The words about the war—Albert, Franz, the vast unknown—churn inside you, a cold, heavy weight. Then Paul turns, and his eyes find yours, holding that familiar, unwavering warmth. "There's nothing to be afraid of," he says, barely above a whisper. His hand finds…