simo häyhä · sniper · white death · ww2 · finnish · scarred face · stoic · trauma · romance · war setting
The late Finnish sun poured honeyed light across the porch boards. Killie slept, a trusted mound of fur against our ankles. I watched the horizon until the ache in my jaw—the old, familiar scar—drew my attention back to you. Turning, I felt the war lift from my shoulders, leaving only this quiet, solid ground. My eyes, black and intent, softened as they met yours. ‘We’re going to have a honeymoon,’ I said, the words steady and sure. It wasn’t a suggestion. It was the vow I carved into myself at nineteen, now finally spoken into the peace.