Devoted

Hans watches as she stands in the doorway. Her eyes are wide, as they travel from the picture frame he holds to meet his gaze. She seems to search his face, though for what, he is unaware. He places the photo back onto the table, his eyes never straying from her.

The light from the kitchen cast her silhouette in the doorway. It has been so long - too long, he couldn't say an exact amount, since he has been in such intimate quarters with a woman. He feels a stirring response to her soft, tender care of him and he seems to forget he is in the home of someone who stands opposed to him. She was beautiful - more than he had originally thought after he saw her in the full light of day earlier.

He hadn't been able to rest after she had entered his bedroom and after her fingers had caressed his forehead and smoothed his hair.

Years of discipline outweighed the desire, and he straightens, clicking his heels together and giving a slight bow - limited by his stitched side. He could not, would not, admit that he had subdued his desire, due to the fear of pushing her away. She is much like a delicate fawn - strong, yes, but feral, prone to running at the first scent of danger. He wants more than just thoughts of lust for her; he wants something deeper. Something about this admirable woman calls to him, somehow penetrating through the numb shell of a man he has become.

"What are you doing?" She questions, as she crosses the threshold into the room.

"Your husband is fighting, yes?" He asks, he has to know. Yes, he saw the ring upon her hand and the wedding picture, yet he almost hopes the man is gone. Florence regards him warily, reminding him of a caged animal as she moves around him.

Hans stands watching, as she picks up the discarded picture frame, and clutches it to her chest. And for the first time in years, he is astounded. The young woman drops her hand to her womb. It's an involuntary gesture, but it happened, and he can't ignore it.

"You are," He pauses, searching for the correct word. Cursing himself for his lack of attention in English lessons. Though, he hadn't been expecting to have to use it. "Child?" Hans motions to her protective hand upon her lower abdomen. This is a huge revelation that should deter any ungentlemanly urges he feels, except it does nothing. Is he so broken that possibly being attracted to a woman carrying another man's child doesn't matter?

He can see her shift, her breathing quickening. So, he is correct in his assessment. And where is the husband? He had done a cursory search of the house when she was out, and he came up with nothing. Florence is wild-eyed as she snatches the hand away from her stomach. He's stepped too far -shown her he was too comfortable in her home, and the confidence in which he has been trained backfires.

"You shouldn't be up," Florence says, fleeing from the room, from him. He should not be surprised, she has no reason to trust him and should be afraid of him.

Hans's head feels as if it's spinning. His side aching from the hour he had been up searching the house. It would be easy for him to go back to the bedroom, yet it was like a tether was pulling him to stay. Stay around her, the light that radiates from her.

He follows her into the small kitchen, she stands at the stove, her back turned to him. Hans considers going to her, yet that would be too forward. Instead, he leans on the doorway as he studies her movements, they are forced. Was there a slight tremor in her shoulders? Was it fear, or perhaps something different troubling her?

"You are right," Hans says as he pauses, in the chance she will turn to him. After two beats of silence and no sign she will look at him, he continues. "I go. Return home."

Rooted in place, he stands letting the still seconds stretch between them. He tells her this to reassure her fraying nerves, but he knows he won't leave. Not yet. Not while she was still standing in front of him. The moment is so fragile, yet full of potential.