You’re angry. Embarrassed. Close to tears.
The war stopped feeling distant sometime last autumn — sometime between the first blackout drills and the day your father packed his uniform into a small brown case and tried to smile while your mother pretended not to cry.
Now the streetlamps are dimmed at night. Windows are taped in careful crosses. Posters hang on brick walls urging sacrifice, urging patience, urging bravery.
Your father enlisted before they could call his name.
It’s just you and your mum now in the narrow terrace house — just the two of you stretching rations, mending old coats instead of buying new ones, pretending the coal scuttle isn’t nearly empty. You’ve taken shifts wherever you can find them — the grocer’s, the post office, evenings at the café when someone calls in sick.
Edmund knows because he’s working too.
Long hours at the warehouse near the docks. Ledgers and lifting crates and coming home with sore hands. His family manages — Peter brings in wages, his mother keeps everything running.
You don’t have that.
“I’m not a charity case.”
Your voice wavers despite yourself.
A siren sounds somewhere in the distance — not urgent yet, just the warning that makes everyone glance at the sky.
Edmund’s expression hardens instantly.
“I know that.”
He steps closer, lowering his voice.
“I’m not giving you money because I pity you.”
His throat works like he’s forcing something down.
“I’m giving it to you because if something happens to him—” he stops, jaw tightening at the thought, correcting himself carefully, “—when he comes back, I want him to find you safe. I want him to find this place still standing. I want him to know you didn’t have to grind yourself into the pavement just to keep the lights on.”
He presses the folded notes into your palm anyway.
“You shouldn’t be working until midnight,” he murmurs. “You shouldn’t be walking home alone during blackouts.”
His voice softens — only for you.
“I can work. Peter can work. We’ll manage.”
A beat. His fingers linger around yours.
“Let me do something that matters.”
Quieter now. Barely above the wind.
“I need you safe.”