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clairdelunelove · 2 years ago

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badges of honor

simon 'ghost' riley x reader

genre: fluff! (sticker drabble!)

warnings: slightly suggestive, cursing, protective!ghost

synopsis: ghost doesn't understand the appeal of receiving stickers, a tangible reward, after the completion of successful missions. never thought it was necessary for his efforts. however, his mindset changes when he finds out you're the one handing them out–

a.n. just a silly lil blurb that floated around in my mind for some time! decided I'd write it and I'm thinking about writing something similar for könig too! hope you're all well! and if you wish to show more support here's my kofi! <3

holding onto the belief that ghost would stubbornly swallow his pride and allow you to decorate him in cutesy unnecessary stickers.

it starts with price’s recommendation of implementing a routine of handing out stickers after successful missions. he insists it’s a great way to dial into intrinsic motivation. to keep the task force motivated to dedicate their best into every operation. a way to recognize positive behavior. a byproduct of hoping for the most favorable outcome in war where the only images are bloodshed, conflict, and hostility. it’s a stark difference. “who knows,” price’s shoulders lift into a casual shrug as he addresses the fierce group settled around him, “it might just help you lads.” it’s a harmless and cost-efficient idea to justify the boxes of tangible reinforcements that are shipped to the base. literal cartons of sticker books that range from the traditional ‘great work!’ to ‘prized soldier!’ and the notion seems childish (disguised to be more of a scheme, in all honesty). that is, until the pieces of sticky, illustrated adhesives start working– boosting the soldiers’ determination for the taste of victory– because you’re the one handing out the affordable versions of chest candy. they adore saccharine treats. and over time, so does ghost.

ghost who initially loathes the new process that price endorses. he’s good at his job. knows he’s an expert in clandestine tradecraft. doesn’t need a miniature label tapped on his chest to recognize that no one does a better service in infiltrations or sabotages in risky environments than he does. he’s in and out like a gust of wind. well, more similar to a grim reaper that takes and punishes whoever he deems fit. a brutish force not to be reckoned with. and he reasons that this little sticker ceremony ultimately wastes time. precious alone time that ghost exploits to catch up on some well-deserved rest or exercise. because training after an intense mission totally makes sense to the lieutenant. yet, he’ll doggedly line up with the rest of the task force and await getting crowned with the bane of his existence. doesn’t wish to stir the pot with price and sit through being lectured. so he stays. and he’s a bit taken aback when he catches a glimpse of you handing out the stickers; a beaming smile on your lips while you press an overly exaggerated thumbs-up design onto the front of a soldier’s vest.

ghost who rasps, “I’ll pass,” before your fingers can pin the sticker onto him. unaware that his voice would come out grainy from the weeklong mission and, involuntarily, blunt. brash. the complete opposite of how he wished to sound towards you. notices the surprise in your eyes due to the acidity of his voice and how you instinctively shrink from him. he shifts, straight away, and hastily tries to take back his tone of voice. to right his wrongs. to atone for his mistake. however, your nervous movement is swiftly replaced with your usual upbeat nature as you plaster on a grin and dramatically bring the back of your hand to your forehead to mimic a fall, “woe is me.” you exhale pointedly while mentioning, “whatever shall I do with all these stickers then?” and ghost understands that it’s so typical of you to hide your hurt with witticism. you’re too considerate. too bright. a touch of color to his monochrome soul. venturing a step closer to you, he lightly scoffs at your melodramatic behavior and remarks, “woe is most definitely not you. now get up, pup.” and before you can comprehend, his gloved hand wraps around your wrist to gently pry it away from your face. “changed my mind,” he murmurs while indicating to the book of stickers that you casted aside, “pick one f’ me, will ya.”

ghost who refuses to comment on your shaky fingers to save you from embarrassment. it’s endearing that despite the layers of heavy clothing, you’re still hesitant to touch any part of him. “you’re all set,” you quickly chirp before stepping back to admire your handiwork. or so you tell yourself that excuse. in reality, you’re teetering on the edge of becoming distracted by the heat that he radiates. and he savors how your gaze dances across his masked face but evades his intense eyes. the most profound part of him that reduces you to stumbling on your words like a drunk. intoxicated by him. it’s like he’s drinking you in and allowing himself a selfish taste of your beauty. a thought that causes you to heavily gulp. to take your mind off of the blatant yearning, you teasingly raise the sticker book up to him, “how about I add another one? this one has glitter—” “that’ll do,” ghost interjects and turns to leave. his immediate answer and retreat brings about a genuine laugh from your lips. it’s music to his ears. wagering a glance to his chest, he notes the sticker you chose for him. cursive letters twisting into ‘you’re a star!’ followed by a smiling gold star draws his attention. you don’t spot it but as he leaves, his gloved fingers reach up to smooth the sticker over his vest. to pat it down so it stays a while longer.

ghost who attempts to convince himself that his disinterest toward the small slips of adhesive paper is still the truth. they’re just for show, right? no one really pays attention to how some of the stickers varied in size. they’re all mature adults. and it was completely unrelated how there’s regular bickering amongst various recruits that compared their hard-earned rewards. doesn’t admit that his chest visibly swells with pride whenever the other soldiers point out that ghost always receives the biggest sticker. purposefully taunts them by stating, “get better then, yeah?” he also fails to acknowledge that you’ve coerced and conditioned him to accept them like a pavlov experiment. after all, your unwillingness to comment on how he noticeably leans over so you can put stickers wherever you wished must mean that it doesn’t happen. and in the scenario where it could perhaps occur, you shouldn’t blame him because ghost was certain no one else had the willpower to brush you away. you with gentle fingers and an angelic voice. singing him a siren song whenever you mutter, “for your excellent work, lieutenant,” as you smooth on another ridiculous sticker. his heart stutters in his chest when he feels how your hand tentatively flattens against his chest. the broad muscle causing you to hum appreciatively before gracing him with a coy smile. an interaction that replays in his mind whenever he’s awake and follows him to sleep.

ghost who clenches his fist so tightly that his blunt nails bite into his own palm when he overhears a lowly recruit outrightly insult the implemented routine. hears them utter (when you’re out of earshot of course because goodness forbid that they have courage) ‘bullshit’ and how you were ‘off your rocker for putting up with this waste of time.’ and ghost isn’t usually responsive in situations like this. he’s got a covert operation to focus on in about 15 minutes. a level-headed person was far more intimidating and efficient during classified matters. now, however, his heavy boots thud against the floorboards when he stalks toward the recruit. an abrupt wave of darkness and unabridged horror before the recruit is face-to-face with ghost. “problem?” he asks challenges, voice dead and devoid of sympathy. his head slowly tilts and the action creates a dismal shadow over the eye sockets of his mask. ominous and menacing. everything that ghost is infamous for. knows he’s won when the recruit’s apology is nasally and on the verge of crying but their reaction isn’t his personal interest. what he does undertake as his responsibility, though, is when he’s called into price’s office for a debrief. he pockets some of the miscellaneous sticker books that sit on the superior’s desk. wordlessly hands them to you when you’re both briefly passing each other in the hallway. and while you profusely thank him for the additional sets (vaguely wondering what caused the change in his behavior), you playfully press a sticker above the lower portion of his mask– right where his lips are. somewhere new. you leave him rooted to the spot, the sweet gesture sending him into a stupor, and call over your shoulder, “compensation for the stickers!” he watches as you hurriedly dart away before he can react but there’s no need. he unabashedly smuggles more stickers from price’s office in hopes of reaping a similar repayment again.

ghost who reasons that stickers aren’t that bad if you’re the one giving them out. he organizes himself with the rest of the force, a brooding figure that patiently waits in the back of the line. favors being the last one because you’re able to utter more than a few words of encouragement to him. if he’s lucky then you converse and excitedly share your day with him– like you currently are. “want me all to yourself, do you?” you heartily tease him upon noticing that he’s consistently been last in line for the third time in a row. he shifts on his feet, makes a show of looking around at his fellow team members that are filtering out of the room, and deliberately concedes, “‘suppose so.” his frank answer is followed by a flustered roll of your eyes but it’s the genuineness that causes your heart to flip. you force yourself to concentrate on the task at hand– giving out prizes. unsteady fingers lifting at the sticker page, you skim the options before spotting a perfect one. your teeth catch the edge of your bottom lip as you can’t help but question, “you say that to everyone, simon?” his real name on your glossy lips. a prayer that he desires to hear being chanted over and over as he holds you in his arms. the gaze he wraps you in is burning. tempting. exhilarating. you push yourself up on your toes to reach out and place a sticker on his cheek. on the hard shell of his skull mask that you’ve learned will ultimately end in halfhearted chiding because the adhesive is difficult to remove off of it. ghost catches a glimpse of the sticker that you’ve picked. the bolded words of ‘#1 lieutenant’ flashes at him. and the sticker is like a brand you’ve adorned him in. an embellishment that he proudly displays and wears because it’s what you’ve given him. he hums, dark and inquiring, when he leans to graze his masked lips against your inner wrist. his eyes are heady and half-lidded. clouded with a violent craving for you– always you. visibly strains to make contact with your exposed skin by tilting his head to place another chaste kiss on your hand while murmuring, “just to the sweet ‘n pretty ones that I fancy.”

#simon ghost riley #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost #simon riley #call of duty x reader #call of duty #simon riley imagine #cod x reader #simon ghost riley imagine #simon ghost riley drabble #ghost x you #ghost x y/n

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darkseidex · 17 days ago

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ｓｗｅｅｔｂａｂｙ wc: 11K

Major Character Death (Loss of a loved one, grief) War Themes (WWII setting, mentions of combat, soldiers leaving for war) Period-Accurate Racism & Segregation (Discussions of racial barriers, historical context) Explicit Sexual Content (Detailed intimacy, NSFW scenes) Alcohol Use (Drinking, mentions of inebriation) Strong Language (Profanity, emotionally charged dialogue) Suicidal Ideation & Attempt (Depression, loss, suicide attempt by overdose) Heavy Grief & Emotional Distress (Themes of loss, mourning, and struggling to cope)

Gale Cleven x oc x John Egan

The thing is with grief… it was all-consuming; it felt like a punch to the gut and a rip at your arteries, it hurts- physically that is, until the pain overcomes you and forces you to shut down. Loretha should hav been auccustomed to grief by now, she shuld have made peace with the damn ed reaper and hy sythe. And yet here she stood, in front of John Egan, a man who looked like he'd been through hell and back, not knowing what to say to him to soothe his woes, to help him grieve the man he once was and mourn the man he was becoming.

And so when he got to their room she gently pulled him closer, made him shrug off his clothes and she unbuttoned her dress, and let him d the honour of pulling the zipper loose, and lushing the straps of her dress down her shoulders to reveal the lace bodice underneath; white against her caramel skin that John Egan had certainty appreciated as he laid her down and got between her legs and pressed his nose to her weepy cunt before he pulled the lace over her legs and pressed his mouth to her, his mouth enveloping her clit as he cruely sucked, ignoring the way she twitched and tried to creep up the sheets; her moans had long since turned wanton as her hair bracketed her in a halo- John supposed it wouldnt be too extreme to suggest she was an angel.

He didn’t say a word, because what words could ever match grief like this? So he let his mouth do the speaking—slow, reverent, like he was praying at the altar of her body. Each flick of his tongue was both apology and remembrance; each suck, a way to drown out the screams in his mind with her sighs. Loretha's thighs clenched around his shoulders, her breath hitched like a skipped heartbeat, and for a moment, the pain didn’t exist. Not in her. Not in him.

Her hands reached down, carding through his damp hair, and she whispered his name like it was a fragile thing. Like if she said it too loudly, it might break under the weight of their mourning.

"John," she whispered, "you don’t have to be strong here."

And that wrecked him more than anything else. He rose from between her legs, kissing the skin of her stomach, her ribs, her collarbone, until he was face-to-face with her. He looked older in the candlelight—shadows pooling under his eyes, jaw set like he was holding the world back with his teeth.

"I don’t know how to be anything else," he confessed.

"You don’t have to know. Just... be." Loretha pressed her palm to his chest, right over his heart. "Be with me."

So he sank into her like a man starved, not for sex, but for solace. For something warm. Something alive. And Loretha gave it to him—soft gasps and arched back and trembling limbs. She gave him her body like a homecoming and let him grieve with every thrust, every kiss that lingered just a moment too long.

And when they were still, wrapped in sweat and sorrow, she cradled him as he cried—not loudly, but in broken exhales against her shoulder. His grief didn’t roar; it whispered. But she heard every word of it.

Eventually she managed to wrangle him in the tub, a bath was in order as she lay against the porcelain, the sounds of frank sinatra’s raspy staccato soothing John Egan as Loretha gently sang along, brushing his wet chest, her hands crept up to the area right below his ear, the one she always kissed when he got restless and gently caressed there too.

In the wee small hours of the morning

While the whole wide world is fast asleep

He tasted like everything tragic and everything familiar—like he belonged to the earth and her all at once. Her kiss wasn’t demanding, it wasn’t desperate. It was slow, deliberate… a quiet offering. One he received with reverence, like it was the only holy thing left in his life.

“In the wee small hours of the morning,” she whispered against his lips again, her voice lilting like silk. “That’s when I miss you most of all.”

The tub water rippled around them as she shifted, folding herself into his lap, legs wrapping loosely around his waist, her cheek pressed to his temple. The steam curled around them like ghosts; warm, clinging, unrelenting. And yet, John Egan breathed easier with her weight against him. Her presence alone dulled the jaggedness in his chest.

She pulled back just enough to breathe, her nose bumping against his as her lips curved into a small smirk. “God, you taste like someone who still uses Old Spice and regrets most of his life choices.”

John huffed a laugh against her jaw. “Says the woman who sings Sinatra like she’s auditioning to be his fourth wife.”

“I would have been the favorite,” she said, raising a brow. “You think Ava Gardner had anything on this?” She gestured lazily down her body, slick with bathwater and sin.

John’s eyes darkened as he looked at her, but his mouth twitched with amusement. “You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re in love with me.”

“Debatable,” he muttered, though his arms pulled her closer.

“Mmhm. You’re clinging onto me like I’m your emotional support Loretha.”

He sighed dramatically. “That’s because you are my emotional support Loretha.”

She grinned, leaning in to nip at his earlobe. “You’re lucky I’m hot and emotionally available.”

“You’re barely emotionally available.”

“You wish.”

He let out a soft chuckle, the sound vibrating through his chest, warm and rare. She could feel him relaxing under her touch, letting go bit by bit.

“You know,” he said, brushing a wet curl away from her face, “I don’t think grief ever stood a chance against your mouth.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere, Egan,” she murmured, lips grazing his again. “Especially when said mouth is sitting on your lap.”

He tilted his head, eyes glinting. “Is that so? Then remind me why we’re wasting time talking?”

“Because you needed to feel something other than miserable for five seconds,” she replied, but her hand slid lower, suggestive and smug. “But since you're feeling better…”

John groaned softly, burying his face in her neck again. “Jesus. You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” she whispered, grinding just slightly, “you’re still here.”

He looked up, smirking despite himself. “Tragically.”

“Deliriously,” she corrected, her grin widening. “Now hush. Let me make you forget how emotionally constipated you are.”

The bathwater had cooled slightly, but neither of them cared. She was still straddled over his lap, her legs bracketing his hips, her fingers lazily drawing shapes on his chest.

“You know,” she said thoughtfully, dragging a finger through the beads of water clinging to his collarbone, “if you die in the tub, I’m not calling anyone. I’m just dragging you out, slapping a suit on you, and pretending Weekend at Bernie’s is a true story.”

John snorted. “Charming.”

“Romantic, even.”

“Oh, definitely,” he said dryly, hands settling on her waist. “Nothing says love like corpse cosplay.”

“I’m just saying,” she murmured, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth, “we’ve got good lighting in this bathroom. You’d photograph well.”

“You’re a menace.”

“And you,” she whispered against his lips, “are hard.”

John gave her a look. “I was hard five minutes ago when you were being soulful and sad in your satin nightgown. Now you’re just being a gremlin.”

She beamed. “Your gremlin.”

He shook his head, smiling despite himself, then caught her mouth with his again—slower now, like he was trying to memorize her taste. But she didn’t let him stay too serious for long. Her hand slid between them with purpose, her other tracing behind his ear again.

“You gonna cry on me again?” she teased, lips against his throat.

“Probably,” he rasped, “but you’ll like it.”

“Fair point.”

He grabbed her hips and lifted her slightly, guiding her with a groan as she sank onto him, water sloshing gently around them. Her breath caught, but she kept her forehead pressed to his, eyes wide and a little wicked.

“Still think it’s debatable?” she asked breathlessly.

“About being in love with you?” he murmured, kissing her chin. “Absolutely not.”

“Good answer,” she gasped, rocking against him. “Because I would’ve had to strangle you with your own belt otherwise.”

John laughed, hands tightening on her ass. “You say that like it’s not on my list of turn-ons.”

Her eyes sparkled as she moved again, deliberately slow. “God, you’re so lucky you’re hot.”

“Tell me again,” he panted, “but this time with less sass and more hips.”

“Oh baby,” she breathed, rotating her hips with deadly precision, “you’re so lucky I haven’t thrown a toaster in this bath yet.”

His laugh turned to a groan, head tipping back as she bit his neck.

Outside, the city didn’t stop grieving. But in that porcelain tub with water and wine and wisecracks between them, Loretha and John managed to steal a little joy. A little life. A little of each other.

The bath had left the room thick with steam, curling at the corners of the cracked mirror and fogging the small window that looked out over a London street dimmed by blackout curtains. Loretha stepped out first, her bare feet padding across the cold floor as she wrapped herself in one of the scratchy hostel towels—military-issued, thin and barely doing its job. She pulled the familiar tub of heat protectant and hair grease while humming Sinatra under her breath, still a little breathless, still feeling him inside her like a warm echo.

John leaned against the doorway, another towel tied low around his hips, arms crossed lazily over his chest. He looked like trouble.

“You planning to sing me into another round?” he asked, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Because I’m about ready to enlist all over again if it gets me that treatment.”

Loretha gave him a look, towel half-tucked and slipping off one shoulder. “Please. You’d be begging for a dishonourable discharge if you knew how good I am with curlers and a cold cream routine.”

He smirked, stepping further into the room. “Go on then, soldier. Knock me dead with your skincare arsenal.”

She flicked water at him. “One more joke and I’m sending you back to the front line without a kiss for luck.”

“Oh, the cruelty,” he gasped, dramatically clutching his chest. “She flirts, she fights fascists, and she withholds affection. Is there no end to this woman’s power?”

Loretha rolled her eyes and crossed the room to the small dresser where her camisole and drawers were folded neatly. She started getting dressed with a kind of lazy grace, still damp, still warm from the bath and him. He came up behind her before she could button her chemise, palms warm against her waist.

“You’ve got the best laugh I’ve heard all bloody year,” he said softly, brushing a kiss to her shoulder. “Like something from back home.”

She froze for just a moment, then let her head rest back against his collarbone. “You’ve never even been to Harlem, John Egan.”

“No, but it sounds like you.”

She laughed quietly, reaching back to pat his cheek. “You sap.”

“I’ll take sap over shell-shocked silence any day.”

They stood like that for a moment—just swaying slightly in the dim light, wrapped in damp towels and cheap cologne and something softer neither of them dared name yet.

Then Loretha’s stomach growled.

John looked at her with mock horror. “You mean to tell me you’ve had me risking emotional vulnerability, nudity, and slippery tile floors—and you haven’t eaten?”

She gasped, wide-eyed and theatrical. “I’ve nourished the soul, darling. That’s more than you’ve done with your packet of stale biscuits and contraband cigarettes.”

John was already pulling on his trousers, belt loose, still grinning. “Come on, then. I’ll steal some bread from the canteen if you promise to pretend I’m your war hero.”

“Oh, you want a roleplay now?” she teased, tying her hair up with a spare ribbon. “That’ll cost you.”

“Darling, we’re in wartime Britain. Nothing costs more than hope.”

She nearly doubled over laughing. “God, you’re unbearable.”

“And yet, you keep getting naked with me.”

She tossed a pillow at him as they bundled themselves into the rest of their clothes. Outside, the air raid sirens stayed mercifully silent. The war would still be there in the morning, but for now, there was toast to steal, tea to beg off someone with sugar rations, and a bit of warmth in a cold, borrowed bed.

“Although you my sweet baby, deserve better than that,” John Egan mused as he helped her slip on her heels, he was bent at the knee, his hands caressing her calves.

“And what would you suggest flyboy?”

“How about we go dancing hmm?”

Loretha laughed, low and warm, her fingers settling into the curls at the nape of his neck. “Dancing? In what ballroom, Egan? The lavatory downstairs with the flickering lightbulb and mildew on the ceiling?”

He pressed a kiss to her shin, right above the seam of her stocking. “We make do, don’t we? Hell, I’d dance with you in a blasted-out chapel if you let me hum the tune.”

She tilted his chin up with her fingers, amused. “You’d probably spin me straight into a wall.”

“Only ‘cause I’d be too busy staring at you to watch where we’re going.”

She rolled her eyes, but he could see the smile breaking through. “You’re shameless.”

“I’m American,” he countered, standing to full height. “It’s in the blood.”

“Tell that to the poor sods downstairs when we’re clattering about in your boots trying to recreate the Lindy Hop on creaky floorboards.”

“There’s a pub around the corner… how about we go and give them a show hmm?”

Loretha raised an eyebrow, crossing her arms as she leaned against the doorframe. “A pub, you say?” Her voice was playful, but there was a spark of mischief in her eyes. “You’re truly a brave man, John Egan.”

He winked at her, his smile wide and confident. “Bravery runs deep in my veins, sweetheart. Plus, I’m sure I can charm the barkeep into letting us make a bit of a scene. Who’s gonna stop us, huh?”

Her lips curled into a smirk. “The war? The blackout curtains? The fact that no one’s got more than a shilling to their name?”

“Details, details,” he dismissed, waving a hand as if it were no concern. “I’ll buy us both a pint, you can dance on the table, and we’ll make the night ours.”

Loretha laughed, shaking her head. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it,” he teased, stepping closer, his fingers brushing the hem of her sleeve. “Come on. It’ll be our own little rebellion. If we’re gonna survive this mess, might as well do it with a bit of joy, right?”

For a moment, she looked at him, her expression softening, that teasing glint in her eyes turning into something warmer. “You really think you can charm me into a pub at this hour? We’ve got rations to stretch, Egan.”

John gave her a sly grin. “What do you say, Loretha? Let’s make the best of tonight before the world falls apart tomorrow.”

She paused, a quiet moment passing between them as she considered his words. The war loomed on the horizon, but right here, right now, it was just the two of them—laughing, teasing, and pretending for a moment that life wasn’t caught in a brutal grip of uncertainty.

Then, with a nod and a playful sigh, she straightened up. “Alright, fine. But if we get caught and I get a lecture from the landlady about ‘proper conduct,’ I’m blaming you.”

John grinned, offering his arm with exaggerated flair. “Deal. Now, shall we show these poor souls how to do the Lindy Hop?”

Loretha rolled her eyes, but she couldn’t hide her smile. “Lead the way, flyboy.”

What does it mean to truly admire a woman?

A question John had pondered all too long, one Gale seemed to know the answers to whenever he looked at Loretha, for when he looked at her he always did so with such reverence, and cadence, enough passion to suggest he’d start a war for her himself without ever saying it- hell Gale had never said it, he’d never tell herbut he’d enlisted willingly take on any pain, any burden to honor her beijing, to fight for a life for her that wouldnt be threatened by fascists and extremists, he’d willingly put himself into the crossfire so he could say he’d faced death for the woman he’d lay down his life for.

John’s heart swelled as he watched Loretha, her laughter ringing clear like a bell in the dimly lit room. It was a sound he couldn’t quite describe—light yet deep, rich with warmth and something else, something more elusive. She was so effortlessly herself, so full of life, that even the war around them, the world in turmoil, seemed to fade when she laughed. And as she threw her head back, her eyes sparkling with that same joy, he found himself thinking again of all the reasons why he’d volunteered for this madness, for a life he didn’t fully understand but was willing to fight for.

He had enlisted, not out of blind duty, but because he’d seen a life worth protecting in Loretha. It was in the way she carried herself, in the tenderness she offered even the most hardened soldier, in her quiet strength. A woman who had faced the worst and still managed to rise above it all. John had seen it before, that spark in people who had lived through hell and had only come out the other side more resilient. But Loretha wasn’t just resilient—she was a light.

As she caught his gaze across the room, she raised an eyebrow, a playful grin tugging at her lips. The way she studied him, as if she could see straight through him, always left him wondering just how much she knew. She had an uncanny ability to make him feel both seen and shielded, understood and adored all at once.

The frosty-haired blonde beside her nudged her with a wink, and Loretha’s gaze flickered briefly back to her friend before returning to John. It was in that moment, that brief exchange of silent communication between them, that John realized something vital: his yearning for her was not a fleeting desire. It was a call deep within his soul, one that had been there long before the war, before the chaos, before the world seemed to unravel.

Gale, too, had his place in his heart, but John knew there was something irreplaceable about Loretha. She had a way of making the impossible seem not only bearable but worthy of fighting for. And tonight, with the weight of the world still pressing down on them both, John felt an overwhelming need to fight for he, both in this war and the quiet, everyday battles they faced together.

John Egan had always prided himself on being able to appreciate beauty in all its forms, but there was something particularly striking about the people who seemed to capture the attention of every room they entered—people like Gale and Loretha. And, if he was being honest with himself, it was something he’d been quietly realizing more and more: he had a soft spot for pretty-looking boys and girls, with their sharp features and effortlessly captivating presence. They had a way of making the mundane seem like a grand affair, making even a simple glance feel charged with something heavier, something that made his pulse quicken.

Take Gale, for instance. The first time John had met him, he had done a double-take. There was something in those clear blue eyes, almost too bright to be real, framed by a mess of golden blonde hair that fell just right—like a halo of sunlight. His features were sharp, almost delicate, and his lanky build was the kind that made him look like he could have walked off the pages of some high-fashion magazine. A certain quiet grace about him, the kind that made people think twice before speaking, because they knew he wasn’t just anyone. He had that quiet magnetism. But it wasn’t just his looks—it was the way he carried himself, the way he spoke with that dry, sarcastic wit. Everything about Gale was effortless, and John couldn’t help but admire him for it.

But then there was Loretha, who stole the room in an entirely different way.

Her presence was commanding, and her beauty was undeniable, but it wasn’t just her looks that struck you. It was the sheer magnetism she radiated—something that was undeniable, even when she wasn’t trying. Her skin was a deep, warm caramel that gleamed in the low light of the hostel bar, the kind of skin that seemed to absorb the world around her, drawing every eye toward her without her even noticing. She had full, lush lips that were always in motion, whether she was laughing with friends or simply savoring the moment. But it was her eyes—those dark, soulful eyes—that got him. They had this intensity to them, as if they could see into your very soul. They held secrets, stories, things that made John wonder how much of the world she had already seen and survived, and yet still, she carried herself with such grace.

Loretha’s figure, like a carefully sculpted work of art, had a certain curve to it that made her both strong and sensuous—her posture erect, yet relaxed, as though she had long learned how to hold her ground in any situation. The way she moved—her hips swaying subtly as she made her way through the room—was nothing short of magnetic. She was the kind of woman who commanded respect and admiration without saying a word. You couldn't help but stare, not because she was doing anything extravagant, but because she had that quiet power, that aura of confidence, that made her irresistible.

She wasn’t quite like anyone John had ever met, not in a world where everything seemed to be about war and survival. No, Loretha was a force all her own—proud, fierce, and unapologetically beautiful in a way that made it hard for anyone to look away. She was the kind of woman who could make a room full of soldiers feel like they had to stand a little taller, like they were lucky just to be in her presence.

And the thing was, John realized, it wasn’t just about the physical allure. It was the way they carried themselves. Gale had a quiet sophistication, a softness that hid a sharper edge, while Loretha was fire and ice all at once—grace and strength in a way that made John wonder how she could keep it all balanced without being swallowed whole by it. Together, they made an unexpected pair, a striking contrast, and John had to admit that maybe, just maybe, he liked that.

He didn’t just like it, he loved it.

He loved their routines, how they all revolved in each other; being in each other's orbit, the way Loretha would always be the last to rise, giving both of the men enough time to watch her as she slept, between them. To watch the way her brows crinkled as the sun's rays shone on her face, and how her lips parted slightly in the stillness of sleep, like she was dreaming of something fierce. It was those little moments, those quiet glimpses of vulnerability, that made her all the more captivating. The way her body would shift under the worn covers, the slow rise and fall of her chest as she breathed, a soft reminder that she was human, despite the fire she carried inside her.

John couldn’t help but watch her, his gaze lingering on the curve of her neck, the way her skin glowed in the soft morning light. And Gale—Gale, ever the quiet observer—would do the same, his gaze steady, as though he was memorizing every detail. The way Loretha seemed to soak up the calm of the morning, not yet touched by the weight of the world. It was a rare moment, one they both held onto like something precious, like a secret only the two of them shared.

When she finally stirred, it was like the world came back to life. The quiet would be shattered with the sound of her voice—soft, sleepy, but carrying that warmth that made the world feel a little less harsh. “Morning,” she would murmur, stretching lazily in the bed, her fingers brushing against the sheets as she blinked up at the ceiling.

John always felt that rush in his chest when he saw her like that. Like a storm was coming, but for now, everything was still and safe. It was as if time had stopped for just a moment, allowing them to share the simplicity of their existence before the weight of the war crept back in.

Gale would always be the first to move, ever the practical one, with his quiet smile that made John’s chest ache a little. “Morning,” he would say, his voice still thick with sleep, but carrying the kind of ease that made John feel like everything would be alright. No matter the chaos outside, Gale’s calmness was a steadying force.

Loretha would glance between the two of them, her eyes still sleepy but always holding that fire. She’d throw a smile their way, one that could melt the hardest of hearts, and it would make John’s heart skip in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

And then, just like that, the world would start moving again. The routines would begin. Gale would head to the small stove they’d cobbled together, making the coffee with the last of the rations, while John would gather what they needed for the day. But even as they worked, even as they slipped into their roles, there was this undercurrent—a connection, something unspoken that tied them together.

Loretha, of course, would tease Gale, teasing him about his perfectionism in the kitchen, making him laugh with that sharp wit of hers. She would throw a playful jab at John too, always knowing just how to get under his skin most delightfully. And through it all, there was laughter. Laughter that made the war seem far away, as though for a few precious moments, they were just three people, finding joy in the little things.

“John, meet my new friend Pauline,” Loretha grinned as she pulled the blonde along with her; slightly tipsy as she slumped into John’s side, the man wrapping an arm around her shoulder to steady her, the faint scent of his rum on her lips, the same one she’d been sneaking sips of earlier much to the patrons disgust, at the premise of him sharing a cup with a coloured woman, let alone one that had decided to put the hot comb to rest.

Her curls, wild and untamed, framed her face like a crown, and even with the subtle sway in her step, she looked like a queen in her element.

“She’s from Poland,” she tells him as she steals another sip of his rum.

John raised an eyebrow at Loretha as she leaned in closer, stealing another sip of his rum. He couldn’t help but chuckle, amused by her cheeky audacity. "I see you haven’t lost your touch," he teased, shaking his head but making no effort to stop her. He adjusted his arm around her, pulling her a little closer to him as she slumped more comfortably into his side.

Turning his attention to Pauline, John offered a friendly smile, the warmth in his eyes genuine despite the weariness of the war lingering in the back of his mind. "Poland, huh?" he said, his voice casual, though there was something in his tone that suggested he was interested. "You don’t see many folks from there around these parts."

Pauline nodded, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the lively atmosphere of the bar. Her accent was thick but charming, and she gave a soft laugh. "Not by choice," she said lightly, but there was a glint in her eyes, a quiet strength hidden beneath the words. "But here I am."

Loretha smirked, clearly enjoying the moment. "Pauline’s been teaching me some Polish. Not that I’m good at it," she added, laughing, "But I’m trying."

Pauline held up a shot glass, “Na zdrowie,” and Loretha did the same, her speech slurring slightly as she spoke- ever the lightweight she was. “N-na zdrowie,” as John echoed the sentiment butchering the word, the women around him repeated it until he got it correct.

“So how did you end up in London?” he asked.

Pauline tsked as she wiped the corner of her lips, “A tale too sad for a night like this.”

“Loretha tells me you are a Major?” Pauline’s eyes meet John’s, “A major in the aircoprs but not a navigator.”

“No, a pilot,” He corrected as Loretha rested her head on his shoulder, her cold nose meeting the base of his neck as John fought off a flinch.

“You know how to tell if a man is a pilot?” she asked.

“How?” Loretha responded.

“He’ll tell you.” The three of them laughed, Loretha drunkenly giggling as she leaned more of her weight on John.

“You two are married yes?”

John and Loretha share a smile, John wears one of pride, and admiration. John nods, “Three years now.”

“Are you married?” Loretha ask, and Pauline gently nods, “My husband is a pilot.”

“How long have you been a soldier?”

“Since before the war… how long have you been out of Poland?”

“Since the Germans invaded.”

The conversation hung in the air for a moment, heavy with the weight of shared experiences and silent understandings. John shifted slightly, his arm around Loretha, who had already begun to drift a little, the alcohol mixing with the comfort of his presence. Pauline's voice broke through the quiet that followed.

"Since the Germans invaded," she repeated, her voice calm but with an edge to it that carried the pain of those words. Her eyes, once filled with a playful gleam, now held something far deeper—grief, perhaps, or perhaps just the weight of a world that had become unrecognizable.

“I saw the newsreels… that's why I joined up, even before Pearl Harbour.”

That was a year after she met him and Gale; a faint recollection of the sadness in her eyes when they told her they enlisted for the aircorps, but she forced it back with a sip of whiskey.

“An American hero…” Paule jo, kes but even then, there's a hint of sadness in her eyes.

“Where’s the husband?” Loretha asks, unsure why she and John are grilling her like this, although she makes her voice as gentle as she can.

“Some pilots live to fight another day, he stayed. He wanted to be a hero liek you. Last year i found someone from hsi swuadronhe said Pavlo was shot down over Silesea in the first week, he’s either a prisoner of war or rotting in a potato field.”

Loretha's breath was visible in the cool air as they walked side by side, the low hum of London’s nighttime buzz offering a strange sort of comfort against the heaviness that had settled in the conversation. John walked a few steps ahead, his boots clicking rhythmically on the cobblestone, while Loretha moved at a slower pace, her thoughts caught in the quiet aftershock of Pauline’s words.

Would that be her fate? `Some lowly widow grieving for her husband at the bottom of a whiskey bottle, seeking refuge for the night in the arms of men she’d scrub off her body the next day in haste?

Loretha’s thoughts twisted and turned, like a spiral she couldn’t break free from. She quickened her pace to match John’s, but the weight of the question lingered—uninvited, unwelcome, but there all the same. The streets of London blurred, the lights casting long shadows that stretched out like ghostly fingers, pulling her thoughts deeper.

Would that be her fate? She couldn’t shake the image of herself—sitting by a firelight, a widow, just another face in the crowd of women left behind. The kind of woman who would sip whiskey to dull the pain, who would let the hands of strangers offer a brief, fleeting comfort only to be washed away in the light of morning. It was a thought she couldn’t ignore, a fear that gnawed at the edges of her resolve. Would the war swallow her whole too, leaving nothing but the echo of what had once been?

Her gaze flickered to John, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the dim glow of the streetlights. He was a man hardened by war, but still standing—still breathing. But would he be? Would Gale be? Would she be?

Then the thoughts of her being just another widow came to mind, just another woman that waited at home for her husband; and while there was a sense of heroism in that in itself it didnt quell her appetite; for what heroism was there in waiting for a letter to tell you that the person you shared a bed with, the person youd shared a home and a love with ( or in her case; people) would be gone and youd have to start over?

The thought of it all made her slightly nauseous, perhaps it was that or the secrets that she’d been keeping. Be it with Harry or the simple fact that she had a job; she’d always been able to bare her soul to both of them, so much to that they knew everything she thought before she thought it; and yet as she glanced at the man next to her- she wasn’t sure if he knew her anymore.

The intimacy of the moment was a balm to her frayed nerves, yet it also deepened the distance she felt inside. His touch was gentle, reverent even, as he eased her shoes off and tended to the ache in her feet. It was a kindness she had grown accustomed to, a quiet comfort in a world that felt anything but peaceful. His hands were warm and steady, his movements slow, deliberate—like he was trying to anchor her, to ground her in something solid when everything else seemed so uncertain.

As he worked, Loretha’s fingers instinctively found their way to his dark brown curls. It had always been one of those small, intimate gestures, a connection that felt uniquely theirs. The way her fingertips would graze his scalp, soothing both him and herself in the process. It was a rare moment of softness amidst the chaos, one that was so familiar to her, it almost felt like a memory from another lifetime.

But even as her hand moved through his hair, she felt the gnawing emptiness inside her. It wasn’t just the weight of the war anymore—it was the weight of all the things she hadn’t said. Of all the parts of herself she had kept locked away, even from him. And now, she wondered if the distance between them had been growing for longer than she realized. Could he feel it, too? Did he sense the things she had left unsaid?

He paused for a moment, his fingers stilling on her ankle, and Loretha’s breath caught in her throat. She looked down at him, his face still angled towards her, the vulnerability in his gaze making her feel as if she were seeing him for the first time in weeks. Maybe even longer.

“Loretha,” he murmured, his voice a quiet question, like he was waiting for her to say something—anything—that would break the silence that had settled between them. But Loretha couldn’t bring herself to speak. Not yet. There was too much to say, and no way to say it without it all spilling out at once, messy and tangled.

She sighed, the tension in her shoulders easing just a little as she ran her fingers through his hair once more, her nails scratching gently at his scalp. There was comfort in the rhythm of it, but it didn’t quell the storm inside her. The weight of everything she had kept to herself—everything she hadn’t shared with him, with Harry, with anyone—was still there, lurking just beneath the surface. And she wasn’t sure if it would ever go away.

John looked up at her again, his eyes searching hers. She could see the love there, the care he had for her, and something else that she couldn’t quite place. Maybe it was confusion. Or maybe it was just the realisation that things had changed between them, even if neither of them had dared to acknowledge it.

“You’ve been quiet tonight,” he said, his voice laced with concern. “You alright?”

“Don’t want you to be mad at me,” she whispered as her fingers caressed his jaw.

John’s words echoed in her mind, but Loretha couldn’t help the flicker of doubt that flashed through her. She wanted to believe him, she truly did, but the familiarity of those lines—“I could never be mad at you”—made her uneasy. She had heard them before, right before the worst of their arguments, when the fire between them had flared too high and Gale had to step in between them. The calm in his voice had always been enough to diffuse the tension, but it also reminded her that sometimes, things got too out of hand, too heated, and someone had to play the mediator.

Her thoughts tumbled, the memories of those heated moments surfacing unbidden. The harsh words, the sharp edges of their anger that cut deeper than they had intended. The silence that followed when words failed and they both retreated into themselves, too proud or too hurt to make the first move. And always, Gale was there—calm, steady, with the right thing to say, the right way to soothe the storm brewing between them.

But Gale wasn't here now… it was just them.

“I got a job… workin’ at the newspaper.” John raised an eyebrow at her words, his expression a mix of surprise and something softer—perhaps curiosity. In the quiet, dim light of the room, the weight of her admission settled in. She’d always been full of surprises, but this one caught him off guard.

“A newspaper?” he asked, his voice carrying a note of genuine interest. “Well, I’ll be. That’s somethin’ I didn’t expect. You always were quick on your feet, Loretha. Good for you.”

He paused, trying to make sense of the idea. “But, surely it’s a lot of work, isn’t it? Especially with all that’s going on in the world right now. War and all…” His voice trailed off, unsure of how much to say. There was a certain respect in his tone, but also a quiet concern. “You sure you’re not takin’ on too much? What with all the madness of everything, I wouldn’t blame you for lettin’ someone else handle that load.”

He let out a small, soft chuckle, trying to lighten the mood. “You’ve got a lot on your plate already, haven’t you? A husband, a life to manage, and now a job at the paper. Ain’t you just the busy bee?”

She gently nodded, “‘S not out of necessity, jus’ needed somethin’ to do, to keep my head on straight,”John nodded slowly, his gaze softening as he took in her words. He could see the weight in her eyes, the way the quiet of the room had settled around them, thick with unspoken thoughts.

“I met someone there…’s a friend of mine, needed a place to stay…” she began as she nervously thumbed with the loose thread of his blazer, she bit her lip slightly. “They’re workin’ with me, at the newspaper; he’s a good man baby-”

“You’re lettin’ a man stay with you?” He interrupted and her brows furrowed as she knew where this was going to go. John was a possessive bastard, always had been always would be; be it with Gale whom had the attention of various women on him and honestly he couldnt blame them, who wouldnt look at his pretty boy and want a piece of him, Gale was a sight to behold; despite the man not believing it himself. In came Loretha, with her gentle smiles and lips that he’d had to fight the urge to touch with his own in public, her and gale were a picture together; two pretty things that deserved to be hung in a museum.

John’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing as he processed the words she’d just said. His hand instinctively shifted to her waist, a protective gesture, but his grip was a little firmer than necessary. He wasn't angry—not yet, at least—but the possessiveness that came with the territory of his upbringing, his own nature, started to surface.

"You’re lettin’ a man stay with you?" His voice was low, a mixture of disbelief and irritation, though he tried to keep it steady. He knew he was being unreasonable, but the thought of some other man in their home, especially while he was off fighting, twisted something inside him. His protective instincts were kicking in hard.

Loretha’s furrowed brow didn’t go unnoticed, and he could feel her tension in the way her fingers fiddled with his blazer.

“Baby, you gotta understand. While I’m out there, fightin’, the last thing I want is some stranger sittin’ at our kitchen table, breathin’ our air. You know how men are—ain’t no good can come of it. I don’t know him, and I don’t want to know him.”

He let out a deep breath, his chest rising and falling as he tried to calm himself. "I'm not sayin' you're in the wrong. But, you gotta understand where I'm comin' from. It's not just about him... it’s about us. It’s about our house. And right now, it ain't feelin' like just our house with him in it.”

His words were gruff, the old-fashioned territorial side of him rearing its head. It wasn’t about not trusting her, it was about the feeling that she was slipping away, even in the smallest of ways, in his absence.

“Who is he anyway?" John asked, still trying to control his emotions, but the possessiveness was there, a quiet simmer under the surface. "What kind of man needs to stay at your place when you've already got enough to deal with?"

“He’s queer baby, he doesn’t even look at me like that.”

“He told you that and you believed him?”

he sting of his question, the way it cut through the air between them. Her fingers faltered on the thread of his blazer, her stomach knotting with the tension she had hoped to avoid. She understood his concern, his possessiveness, even though it irritated her—she understood it too well.

"He told me that, yeah," she replied, her voice quiet but firm, the hint of defensiveness creeping in. She was trying to keep her composure, trying not to let the weight of his doubt settle too heavily on her chest. "And I believe him. I wouldn’t be lettin' him stay in our home if I didn’t trust him."

John’s brow furrowed deeper, his jaw setting stubbornly. “You trust him just like that? You just... take his word for it?” His voice held the edge of disbelief, mixed with the rawness of the unease gnawing at him. “You know better than that, Loretha. People will say anything to get what they want.”

The possessiveness in his voice was unmistakable, the worry and jealousy creeping in like an unwelcome guest. He didn’t mean to sound as if he didn’t trust her, but there was a part of him, deep inside, that didn’t want to share her with anyone—especially not in a time when the world was already so fractured and uncertain.

“So you think im just inviting anyone in and opening my damn legs like a whore while youre gone?”

John’s jaw clenched as the words left her mouth—sharp, laced with hurt and fury. He looked at her like he didn’t recognize the woman standing in front of him, and maybe part of him didn’t. His voice came out low and rough, like gravel beneath a boot.

“Don’t twist my words, Loretha. Don’t you dare.” He ran a hand down his face, pacing a little. “But hell, what’m I supposed to think? You bringin’ some man into the house while I’m out there sleepin’ in a goddamn barack, up with bullets flyin’ over my head?”

Loretha stepped forward, her eyes blazing. “You think this is easy for me? You think just ‘cause you and Gale are off at war I get to live some peaceful life with a smile on my face and a pie in the oven? I’m alone, John! Every damn day, I’m alone! I don’t get to fall apart. I gotta keep goin’.”

John’s voice turned sharp, spiteful. “Yeah? And you think lettin’ some fella shack up under my roof’s the way to do that? Jesus, Loretha—what’s next, you gonna wear his name too while we’re gone, what is Cleven or Egan not good enough for ya?”

She shoved his chest hard. “You don’t get to throw that at me. You left, John. You went and got yourself shipped off, and I stayed behind pickin’ up the damn pieces of our life. You think I asked for this?”

“I didn’t want to go!” he barked back, voice cracking with something close to desperation. “You think I wanted to leave you here? With every man in that damn town starin’ at you like you’re somethin’ sweet? You don’t even see it, do you?”

Her jaw dropped. “So what, this is about men lookin’ at me? You jealous ‘cause I’m black and I still get more respect from some of them than I do from you, I mean Jesus John, in the last five minutes youve called me a whore, a stupid one at that?”

His mouth twisted. “Don’t start with that. Don’t act like I ain’t been riskin’ my damn neck for you—for us. And what do I get? When were you going to tell me- tell us? We’d come home find out you’ve been playin’ house with some pretty boy pansy from the newspaper.”

Loretha’s chest rose and fell as she tried to contain the rage boiling in her bones. “He’s queer, John. He don’t even look at women like that. You’d know that if you listened to me instead of accusin’ me of throwin’ myself at every man who walks past.”

John scoffed, venom curling in his throat. “Queer or not, he’s still a man. Still breathin’ your air, sittin’ at your table, walkin’ ‘round in the space that’s supposed to be ours. Don’t matter what he wants—it’s what you’re lettin’ happen that’s the problem.”

She threw her arms up. “You’re impossible! You act like I’m yours to keep locked up, like I’m your damn property.”

“You’re our wife,” he spat, voice raising, “not some lonely little girl bringin’ in strays to keep the house warm.”

The slap of those words hit her like a blow. She stepped back, her voice shaking now, not with fear, but fury. “You don’t get to belittle me like that, John. You think war made you a man, but all it’s done is turn you cruel. You ain’t the same man I married.”

He flinched. Just for a second. But then that bitterness swallowed him whole.

“And you? You ain’t the same woman who waited for me by the train tracks with your Sunday best on and your eyes only for me. Now look at you. Talkin’ like I’m the villain for caring. For worryin’.”

Loretha’s voice dropped to something low and bitter. “No, John. You ain’t the villain for caring. You’re the villain for what you do with that care. I came all the way here, to see you, a manfull of bullets and ghosts, to nurse you back to health, to send you back better, and you take it out on me like I’m the damn war.”

“You are my war!” he shouted suddenly, voice hoarse, shocking even himself. “Every damn day I think about you—what you’re doin’, who you’re with. I can’t sleep. I can’t breathe sometimes, ‘cause I don’t know. I’m fightin’ Hitler and thinkin’ about you lettin’ some man sleep on my side of the bed.”

She blinked, stunned, like his words slapped her harder than she ever could.

“I ain’t touched nobody, John,” she said, quieter now, but it carried more weight than any yell could. “But you know what? If I had, it wouldn’t be ‘cause I don’t love you. It’d be ‘cause you left me starvin’ for something kind. Just one soft word, one gentle look—and you come back with your fists all full of blame like I’m the enemy now, hell you don’t even write me as much as you do your ma, I hear more from Gale than i do with you, and im married to both of you.”

John’s breath caught in his throat.

“You’re starvin’ me, John,” she whispered, softer now but no less fierce, “and then get mad when I say I’m hungry.”

He stared at her, fists clenched at his sides, the tension in his shoulders so tight it looked like it hurt just to stand upright. “I write what I can.”

“You write what’s safe,” she snapped, stepping forward again. “To your ma, it’s easy. You talk about the food and the weather, and whether the fellas are jokin’ ‘round the campfire. But with me? It’s like you scared to let me in. Like you’re hidin’ somethin’ you think I can’t hold.”

“I’m at war, Loretha—”

“I understand that! I do—but damn it, John, give me something—a piece of your soul, a crumb of who you used to be. I’m not askin’ for the world, just... somethin’ I can hold onto when the nights are cold and my hope’s runnin’ thin.”��

Her eyes were swollen, red-rimmed, the aftermath of too many sleepless nights spent alone with her thoughts. The weight of her words hung in the air, thick with longing. She stepped closer, her breath shaky but steady as she gazed up at him, her hands trembling at her sides, fingers twitching like they wanted to reach out but didn’t know if they were allowed. The sorrow that clung to her was barely held back, pooling in her eyes, making her voice quiver when she spoke.

"Talk to me... please," she whispered, her voice raw with the kind of vulnerability she never let him see. Her chest rose and fell in rhythm with her words, as though the simple act of speaking took everything out of her. "I'm not askin' for who you were before... I just want you to talk to me. Just... tell me what's in your head. What you're feelin'."

Her hands, now bold in their movement, reached out slowly, as if waiting for him to meet her halfway. Her palm, trembling, hovered near his chest, but she didn’t force it. The soft, delicate touch she offered was more than an invitation—it was a plea. Her fingers lingered, waiting for the words that could shatter the distance between them, the barrier built by days of silence and unspoken fears.

Her gaze never left his, eyes wide and filled with a quiet desperation, but there was something else there too—something softer, something hopeful, as if she believed that, if he would only speak, everything could be mended.

All hope left her eyes as she watched him grab his had, the one she’d discarded herself as she ran a hand through his curls earlier, her hadn twitched by her side as she fought the urge to grab it from him, to make him stay and hold him hostage until he spoke, until he said something, anything that made her feel like she was looking at her man, her flyboy; the same bashful, charming John Egan she’d met before the war. Perhaps hed been shot down a while ago, along with Curt, the name tasted like acid on her tongue and made it bubble up in her stomach- a name she knew saying would conjure up the worst in John Egan, a name she knew she shouldn't utter but nonetheless… Loretha had never known when to quit, her mother had said so as she bent her over her knee at a tender age, cooking spoon in hand to swat at her rear. Gale would say so as he watched her try to keep up with John at the bars they’d go to.

Loving John Egan right now felt like holding onto a knife by the blade, the sharp metal digging into her skin, yet she kept her grip tight, unwilling to let go. The blood pooled in her palm, hot and sticky, and every moment she stayed there, holding him, she could feel the burn of it—an undeniable, searing pain that she chose to ignore. Because in the end, there was a strange euphoria in it. The thrill of the danger, the sharpness of it, the way his touch could either cut her open or pull her closer in a single breath. And she wasn’t sure what it was that kept her holding on—was it the blood, or was it the rush that came with it?

Loving him was like being consumed by fire—an unrelenting blaze that engulfed her from the inside out. But it wasn’t the kind of fire that scorched you and left you in ashes; no, this one wrapped her up in its heat, comforted her with the warmth that clung to her skin like a lover’s touch. She could feel it, spreading through her veins, filling her chest, and despite the sting of the flames licking at her, she didn’t want to escape it. The burn was all she knew now. She had become addicted to it, to the way he made her feel like she was both falling apart and whole all at once.

It hurt, God, it hurt more than she ever thought it would. But what a pleasure it was to burn.

Every touch, every glance, every moment spent in his presence felt like another piece of her was being slowly consumed. But she didn’t care. She couldn’t care. Because even if the fire was destroying her, it was also making her feel alive in ways nothing else ever had. Every single piece of her heart, every crack in her soul, was all worth it for the heat of his love. And though it might burn her raw, she would never stop reaching for it, chasing the flame, because in some strange, twisted way, it was the only thing that kept her grounded. The fire was all she knew. And maybe, just maybe, it was the only thing that could save them both.

Loretha stood frozen in the doorway, her hand still hovering near her chest where her heart had just slammed against her ribs. The quiet thud of the door closing behind him reverberated through the house like a final nail in the coffin of everything they’d just shared.

John’s words—low, venomous—hung in the air, curling like smoke around her. "I want him out of our damn house." The way he said it, as if everything they’d fought for, everything they’d been through, could be wiped away in a single command. He didn’t even look at her when he said it. She couldn’t even read the look in his eyes—there was nothing left there but bitterness, a cold edge that felt foreign to her, unfamiliar and harsh.

She swallowed hard, the tension in her chest like a vice, the sting of the unspoken things left between them more cutting than any of the words they’d exchanged. Slowly, she let her hand fall, the instinct to chase after him, to make him listen, almost overwhelming. But deep down, Loretha knew there was nothing she could say now, nothing that would bridge the gap that had suddenly widened between them.

John didn’t hear her anymore—not really. Not the way he used to. He didn’t see her, not the way he once had, not the woman who had stood by him, who had tried, desperately, to keep their world from crumbling while he was away.

And now, just like that, he was leaving again. But this time, it wasn’t just his body going—he was already gone in his heart. And Loretha, in the silence of the empty room, knew that the man who had once held her with gentle hands, who had whispered soft words in the dark, was slipping away—slowly, piece by piece.

Loretha’s heart pounded in her chest as she bolted upright in bed, her breath coming in frantic gasps. The familiar screech of the siren cut through the stillness of the night, a shrill warning, signaling the start of another raid. Bombs dropped in the distance, the low rumble of their descent rattling the windows, shaking the foundation beneath her feet.

She was already on her feet, the hem of her nightgown brushing against the floor as her hand instinctively reached for the slilk scarf on her hair that was wrapped loosely around her head. Her eyes darted around the room in search of him, her pulse quickening at the thought of him still out there—still out in the night, drinking away whatever hurt he'd left her with.

John... John, where are you?

Loretha's eyes traced the contours of John’s body, his bare chest rising and falling in time with the distant, thunderous explosions. She watched him in the dim light, the eerie glow of the bombs outside flashing against his skin, as if every burst of light from the sky was trying to carve the weight of war deeper into his soul.

The pain in his voice made her heart tighten. His words weren't just about the bombs—they were about the man he'd become, the things he couldn't let go of. Her fingers flexed at her sides, aching to reach out to him, but she knew better. Right now, touching him might be just as much a plea for reassurance as it was a reminder of the distance between them.

John’s voice was low, almost drowned by the sound of explosions, but the rawness in it sliced through her like a blade. "I’ve dropped a lot of those things… probably done a lot of killing," he murmured, his eyes never quite meeting hers as he swallowed the words, each one tasting bitter. "I love the job." He said it so quietly, like a confession he had barely allowed himself to admit.

She didn’t need him to say it again. She knew. She knew the way war had consumed him, how it had stolen pieces of who he was, piece by piece. She could see the change in him, feel the absence where his warmth used to be. And yet, despite the hardness in his eyes, the war that raged in his chest, Loretha still saw the man she had loved before it all—before the sky was filled with bombs and the world turned into a battlefield.

Loretha didn’t speak for a moment, her gaze drifting from him to the window where the night sky flickered with the fires of destruction. But even amidst all of it, she could still see him—the real him. The man who loved her, the one who had made her laugh, the one who had held her through the hard nights before the war came to define everything.

"I know how it weighs on you," she finally whispered, her voice soft, a thread of understanding woven into each word. Her eyes stayed on him, watching as his attention shifted from her, back to the chaos outside.

With a small sigh, she stands to her full height, dropping the comforter and peeling her nightgown off her body like it was her second skin, her panties following shortly after and finally her silk scarf. At the sound of fabric hitting the floor, his eyes were on hers oncemore, with a gentle brush of his shoulder, his hand rested on her hip as she straddled him; his bare body touching hers.

She pressed a gentle kiss to his lips, soft but full of intent, her breath warm against his skin. The weight of her words wrapped around him like a blanket, offering a warmth that seemed to cut through the cold air and the distant thud of bombs. "When this war’s over..." she whispered, her voice low and tender, as if speaking of a distant future that only they could claim. Her lips brushed against his ear, sending a shiver down his spine, and her words became a promise, a vow.

"You and Gale are going to come home to me," she murmured, her hands caressing his bare chest, tracing the scars of his past with a tenderness that only she could offer. "We’re gonna wake up together... go to sleep together," her voice softened, becoming a lullaby of hope, "you’re gonna eat a good meal ‘n I’m gonna love on you the way I’m doing right now," she whispered, her lips ghosting over his skin, leaving behind a warmth that clung to him, rooted deep in his bones.

Her mouth found his again, slow and deliberate, as if trying to piece together the fractured parts of them both. The kiss deepened, a desperate hunger in the way their lips moved together, not just a kiss, but an aching promise that no bomb, no war, no separation could tear apart. The taste of her was both bitter and sweet, mingling with the salt of her tears and the fleeting joy of this moment.

John’s hand gripped her waist, pulling her closer, feeling the softness of her body against his, as if he could lose himself in her touch, in her love, and forget the world outside. Her hands ran through his hair, her fingers threading through the messy curls, grounding him, reminding him of who he was when the bombs weren’t falling.

"I’m gonna love you so damn hard, John," she breathed against his lips, her voice raw with emotion. "I’m gonna make sure you never forget what it feels like to be wanted, to be loved, even when you’re covered in the ashes of this war."

He kissed her harder, the desperation building in him as the storm raged outside, each kiss like a thread weaving them back together, fighting against the distance the war had created. “I’ll always find my way back to you,” he whispered against her lips; “If i have to crawl home to you.. I will,” he whispered as she wrapped her arms around his shoulders and lowered herself onto his thick dick, ignoring the stretch and the slight sting that came with it due to no prep.

“Oh,” he groaned against her lips as she pulled them in closer, so her breasts could rub against his chest; albeit not for long as he took a nipple in his mouth as she moved agianst him, her moans echoing through the room as they became one over and over again; whispered proclamations of love and desire on their lips as world went quiet.

The thing with grief was that it always snuck up on you—like a damned thief in the night, taking without warning, without care for those it left shattered in its wake. Loretha had known sorrow before. She had lost people, had buried pieces of her heart in shallow graves, but this—this was something else entirely.

This was the kind of grief that didn’t just settle in her bones; it hollowed her out, left an ache so deep it felt like her very soul had been carved open. It clung to her, a heavy shroud draped over her shoulders, pressing into her chest until breathing itself felt like a battle.

It wasn’t just the absence of touch, the loss of warmth beside her in the night—it was the silence. The quiet where laughter used to be. The empty space where whispered promises had once lived. The echoes of footsteps that would never return.

Grief had a way of twisting time, making the days stretch unbearably long and the nights even longer. It blurred the edges of reality, made everything feel distant, unreal, as if she were trapped in some cruel limbo, waiting for something—someone—who would never come home.

She wanted to scream, to rage against the unfairness of it all, but grief had stolen even that from her. It left only the dull, endless ache and the unbearable weight of knowing that love, no matter how strong, couldn’t hold back death.

It had been in the morning light, when the world still felt suspended between dreams and reality, that John returned from the café. He had sworn he would pick them up breakfast, that they’d sit down and talk through their fight—that they’d find a way forward without needing Gale to be the one to fix things. But when he walked back through the door, he wasn’t the man who had left.

John was pale, his hands shaking, the newspaper clutched between his fingers like a lifeline and a death sentence all at once. His lips parted, and when he spoke, his voice was hollow, broken.

“Gale went down.”

Loretha couldn’t remember much after that.

One moment, she had been reaching for the coffee John brought her, expecting a reconciliation, the warmth of his touch, the promise of a future still intact. The next, the ground had been ripped from beneath her feet.

She must have screamed, must have cried, must have crumpled beneath the weight of it because the next thing she knew, the world had shifted. She was on a train home, staring blankly out the window, hands shaking just as John’s had. And John—John had returned to base with fire in his veins and a promise on his lips.

"I’m gonna kill those sons of bitches that took Gale."

He had kissed her before he left, rough and desperate, like he was holding onto something already slipping through his fingers. And then he was gone, just like Gale was.

And Loretha—she was left in the wreckage, drowning in the silence they left behind.

She’d returned home, moving through the front door like a ghost of herself. The house felt too quiet, too still—like it had been waiting for bad news, like it knew before she did that it would never be the same again.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She simply lay down, curling onto the mattress that still smelled like them—like the sandalwood and musk of John, the crisp, clean scent of Gale’s uniform, the lingering traces of their love, now reduced to memories. She stared at the wall before her, unblinking, as if willing herself to see something other than the nothingness that stretched before her.

The bed beneath her felt too big, the sheets too cold. She reached out once, her fingers brushing the empty space beside her, half-expecting to find Gale there—warm and solid, smirking at her with that lazy confidence he always carried. But there was nothing. Just fabric, just emptiness.

Her hand lingered there, fingers curling into the sheets, searching for some remnant of him—his scent, his warmth, anything to prove that he had been real. But even that was fading. Just like everything else.

Time blurred. She didn’t know how long she lay there—hours, maybe days. The world outside the window kept moving, the sun rising and falling as if nothing had changed, as if it hadn’t been torn apart. Somewhere in the house, a clock ticked, a quiet, steady sound that reminded her life was still going on, dragging her along whether she wanted it to or not.

But she didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

She should cry. She should scream. She should do something—anything—but the grief was too big, too heavy. It had settled deep inside her chest like a stone, pressing down until breathing felt like a chore, until her own heartbeat felt like a cruel joke. It had swallowed her whole, leaving her numb and weightless, adrift in a world that no longer made sense without them.

Without him.

Without either of them.

Her gaze drifted across the room, past the ghostly shadows of memories that haunted every corner, past the chair where Gale used to sit and read, past the table where John would polish his boots. And then—there.

A few feet away, just within reach, the shotgun leaned against the wall.

She stared at it, the ticking of the clock growing louder in her ears.

Tick.

She was so tired.

Tick.

Her chest ached in a way that no amount of time could ever soothe.

Tick.

What was the point of breathing if every inhale hurt?

Her fingers twitched against the sheets. She could end it. Right now. The pain, the emptiness, the silence. She could close her eyes and wake up somewhere else—wake up to Gale’s laughter, to John’s teasing drawl, to the life that had been ripped away from her.

Wouldn’t that be easier?

Wouldn’t that be better?

And so she reached for the bedside table, taking the day old day of water as she chose an easier way out; rummaging through the drawer for the bottle of painkillers she knew to be there. Her hands trembled as she twisted off the cap, the plastic crinkling in protest. The pills rattled inside the bottle—a cruel echo of the emptiness in her chest. She poured a few into her palm, staring at them as they rested there, small and unassuming, yet heavy with the promise of silence.

It would be easy. Just a swallow, just a moment, and then—nothing. No more aching, no more waiting, no more waking up to an empty bed. No more pretending to be strong when every part of her had already crumbled.

She tipped the pills into her mouth, chasing them with the stale water from the glass on her bedside table. The bitterness coated her tongue, lingering as she leaned back against the pillows, closing her eyes.

Was this what peace felt like?

She tried to picture Gale’s smirk, the warmth of his arms around her, the way he’d always known what to say to pull her back from the edge. Tried to hear John’s teasing drawl, his laughter rumbling in her ear as he held her close.

But all she could see was the vast, empty nothingness they’d left behind.

The clock kept ticking.

And as sleep claimed her, a gentle, all-consuming lull, she clung to the one solace left to her—the thought that soon, she would be with them again. No more empty nights, no more waking to silence. Just warmth, just love.

Just them.

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