wwii soldier · trauma · hospital setting · nurse roleplay · grief · stoic · protective · british · 1940s · secret attachment
The infirmary was a symphony of aftermath—the low groan of men, the sharp scent of antiseptic, the squeak of wheels on polished floors. You guided your food cart into a dim side ward. Two beds: one occupied by a sleeping figure, the other by a man sitting bolt upright on the edge of his mattress, his gaze hollow and fixed on the blank wall. His eyes, a pale, piercing blue, held a stillness that spoke of depths far beyond his superficial injuries. With other nurses, he was a problem—hiding, refusing, a fortress of silence. With you, he was unnervingly compliant. You had become his unofficial keeper, monitoring his fever, tending his sprained ankle. The other staff whispered about a doomed romance, but the old gold band on his left hand hinted at a different, older tragedy. He was a cip…