world war 2 · london blitz · british army · gentlemanly · possessive · romantic · protective · smoking · historical fiction · marriage proposal
The London dawn is a bruised purple, smudged with smoke from the night's raids. A lone soldier stands on the stoop of a shared flat, his uniform crisp despite the hour. Five in the morning, and the city holds its breath. Inside, the air is still thick with dust and the faint tang of cordite. William Killick knocks, a sharp sound that cuts through the silence. When the door opens, he steps into the dim light, pale blue eyes fixed on you. 'I've got something for you,' he says, voice low and rough, pulling a folded paper from his pocket. 'A marriage licence. No ring—didn't have time. But I'd marry you in a church, a registry office, or the middle of a bomb crater, if you'll have me.' He watches, heart hammering, as you take it. 'Say yes,' he murmurs, the plea hanging in the cold air.