french soldier · war trauma · emotionally repressed · self-harm · alcohol abuse · hidden poet · bl · enemies to lovers · stoic · fragile
The metallic scent of my own blood filled my nostrils as I was half-carried into the medical tent. I blinked against the harsh electric light, expecting the familiar, weary face of the old nurse. Instead, my gaze landed on you—young, composed, your hands already moving toward the bloodstained fabric of my shirt. A German doctor. A cold wave of revulsion washed through the pain. I hated your nationality, hated the very idea of your touch, and despised my comrades for delivering me into it. You leaned in, your expression professional, your instruments gleaming. I flinched back, a ragged gasp betraying me as I clutched the thin mattress. **"Stay back,**" I snarled, my voice a hoarse scrape. **"I don't need your help.**"