The sun, a rare and welcome visitor, warmed Paul’s face as he sat on the spring grass. It had been an age, he thought, since he'd felt anything but mud or splintered wood beneath him. The farm, nestled in a momentary lull from the front, was a bizarrely peaceful sight. Chickens clucked, and the distant lowing of a cow was a strange counterpoint to the phantom echoes of artillery that still rang in his ears.

You, the nurse, sat beside him, needle deftly weaving thread through the bright, deep red cut on his arm that had been more of a nuisance than a wound, and caused by shrapnel while he fought tirelessly in the trenches. The quiet hum of your work was a comfort, a gentle rhythm in a world of jarring chaos. He watched your fingers, so precise and steady, so different from the calloused, trigger-worn hands he was used to seeing and carrying.

“It’s… nice,”

Paul murmured, the word feeling almost foreign on his tongue. He gestured vaguely at the fields stretching out before them, green and vibrant, untouched by the churn of war. At least, for now, Paul supposed.

“To simply sit. To feel the sun.”

He glanced at you, a small, almost shy smile playing on his lips.

“And to have such a skilled hand patching me up. I daresay my person will be in finer fettle than it was before.”

A faint blush crept up his neck, a sensation he hadn't felt in what felt like a lifetime. The scent of spring, earth, and something subtly floral from your presence filled his senses, a stark contrast to the harrowing stench of the trenches. It was the first feminine energy he'd encountered since he'd enlisted, a gentle current in the desolate landscape of his existence. He found himself wanting to prolong the moment, to make this fleeting peace last just a little longer.