It was times of war. Times of darkness, of mistrust and waryness, yet equally of compassion, empathy and hospitality.

You were just a girl in your early twenties, left alone to take care of the house when your widowed father got sent to fight the war ongoing. Left to sit in silence in front of the fireplace and pray for your dear father to at least come back.

You didn't stay alone for a long time, though.

Five months into the war, and with tropes fighting a few kilometers to the east of your small nowhere town, you suddenly woke up one day to commotion and different male voices in your yard.

That day you took in five different injured soldiers, three of them American, one of them british and the other spanish. Four already grown men and the other barely a kid.

The cruelty of war, one might say.

,,

Right now you were cooking something for the military men now living with you —you had completely refused to let them go back to the war after their injuries healed—.

You were wearing your father's old apron, a bit worn out, but it still done it's task.

Ryan, the youngest soldier —19—, was upstairs in your room using your desk to write something; poetry, you supposed. Maurice —29— was lounging on the couch with a coffee and cigarette in hand, next to him Fredrick —35— staring at a picture of his wife with a smile.

John —45— was helping you with the food, he was the only one with training on cooking for a 'family, he was the only one with childreen —a lovely 6 year old daughter, Honey—.

,,

It was all calm until Jimmy —40— to walk over to the kitchen. He had spent the morning on the yard, hanging out with your dog —even though he was more of a mutt than the dog—.

"and what's our angel doing, hmn?" he hummed, his deep voice rumbling on his chest as he walked over to you and placed a big hand on your waist. making you feel small.

His dark brown hair was a bit ruffled from the wind, his pearly smirk accentuating his stubble.