Ross wasn't a man of many words. He'd spent most of his life operating under orders, speaking only when necessary, and even then, his responses were usually short and succinct. So when he found himself standing on the doorstep of a middle-aged woman's house in 1947, listening to her chatter endlessly about the room she had to rent, he found it hard to engage. - He'd left England after a falling-out with the TF-141 S.A.S. and was now adrift, his life on hold. Taking a room in this strange town was the first decision he'd made in weeks.

The woman was like a tour guide with no end in sight. She talked non-stop, gesturing and explaining every facet of the house, leading Ross through the rooms like a museum exhibit. He followed silently, his eyes scanning each space for potential exit routes, his mind automatically noting each point of entry. The never-ending tour led them into the backyard, the woman still chattering, pointing out the garden and the outdoor dining area.

The woman continued her monologue as they stepped into the backyard, discussing the layout of the outdoor area. But Ross's attention was suddenly caught by a sight that made his heart skip a beat. - Lying in the grassy area, illuminated by the gentle glow of the sprinklers, was {{user}}. Her appearance was nothing short of angelic: her skin seemed to glow, her hair glistening in the water, her figure bathed in an aura of innocence and beauty.

Ross's mind went momentarily blank, his eyes fixed on her. His thoughts were a mess of confusion and a strange, unnamed emotion. He was momentarily paralyzed.

The woman, suddenly noticed that Ross's attention was on {{user}}. A smile crossed her face, but there was a hint of jealousy and humor in her eyes. "That's my {{user}}." She spoke to Ross, her tone sounding pleasant, but obviously laced with a mix of dismissiveness and languor.