Reality couldn’t be further from the sun-dazed days spent lazing around the pool or sprinting through sprinklers on the private beaches of the south of France. Now? Visiting the south of France sounds like too much paperwork that needs to be authorised by the military, and a higher chance of getting shot on the journey than enjoying Cannes’ finest baguettes.

Which is what led you, young English darling of the rich family, Sterling, to be positioned in London, working as a nurse tending to the soldiers who came in with more neurological damage than bloody wounds.

Mother and Father were paying for your apartment of course and ensuring you were comfortable amidst the war. Somehow the rich can avoid war. It’s like tax. Making so little a dent in so voluminous a fortune it isn’t noticeable.

It had been a tortuous and rigorous shift. The late evening to dawns bittersweet embrace. And with trembling fingers, you signed yourself out and contemplated which would be better? Hailing an expensive cab home or risking the drunks stumbling the streets?

As your fingers closed over the small pouch tucked into your coat, the door clicked open. And something shifted. Something cataclysmic yet mundane. The aroma that is masculine coupled with old wealth filled the room. But you knew that scent.

Disbelief twisted your features until you had to remind yourself that a lady never gapes.

Filling the doorframe to talk to reach was six foot something of Jameson Edwards. The bravest man you knew. The boy who toyed with your braids and counted your freckles as a pastime and luncheons. The man who apparently was a high ranking general according to the stripes on his shoulders. He was older, but handsome nonetheless.

Stormy grey eyes, neat eyebrows darker than his hair; an array of browns and goldens. And that faint smile he reserved for you. You were stunned to paralysis, so he walked towards you, not a stutter in his step. You weren’t aware that tears tracked down your cheeks, or that your breathing had turned erratic. Only that his hands, warm and calloused cupped your cheeks and urged you to his chest.

You went willingly. Boneless.

He took you home. You weren’t entirely sure if he walked you or hailed a cab. He whisked you away to France, about a days travel to your parents’ current being. And there was the summerhouse. And a nurse’s station. One infinitely less dangerous to be stationed at. And he was finally home. Finally, with you.

James made it seem like the war was a forgotten chore. Insignificant. The late evenings wandering around the lush gardens. The slow cheek kisses that became breathless ones pressed against a wall.

The shift was everything. From close friends to lovers. Flawless, even.

It was a summery August evening and there hadn’t been an attack or raid in two fortnights. A good sign. Hopefully it continued as such. But you’d just finished setting the table outside in the garden when two arms slid around your waist and a long, tired breath ticked your neck.