Devoted

Hans lays in bed staring at the ceiling. He's been awake for hours. The cold air bites into his skin as he lies on top of the covers, the fire must have burnt out, he needs to go build it up. Yet, he isn't capable of rising from bed as the events of the night before continue to torment him. It was surprising when Florence took his hand placing it on her swollen belly, but any reservations he had melted away as the baby moved beneath his hand. The feeling isn't new to him; he's felt a baby move inside a womb before, but the overwhelming grief that consumes him is new. For the first time in this quiet, and remote place the guilt washes over him. Threatening to pull him under.

Sitting up on the edge of the bed Hans scrubs his face with his hands trying to rid himself of the burning sensation behind his eyes. He can't remember the last time he let his emotions out. Not even for the funeral his commanding officer gave leave for, he didn't want to be seen as weak. Except now a tear trailed down his cheek as he remembers the pain of losing them so suddenly and the guilt of not having been there. Will this hole in his heart ever heal? Hiding here is making him question what he wants in life, and what he's done in this godforsaken war in the name of his country.

He can hear Florence moving around the kitchen now, she is awake and he wishes to stay away for the morning. Bide time to lick his wounds and settle his emotions. It's easier said than done as he paces the bedroom knowing she is just down the hall. He wants- no, needs to smooth things over with her, just not yet.

Hans's restraint is fraying as he makes another lap of the small room, at this point he knows it's eight paces from one end to the other. The house is still cold, surely she will have stoked a fire? It's something she would have done before he was here. A nagging feeling sits on his chest that he's being ridiculous, and needs to go take care of her. Having enough of being trapped in this room he strides to the door turning the knob. He swings the door open finding Florence there hand raised as if to knock. They are both startled as they look at each other.

Hans steps back from the doorway and motions Florence in. She gives a tight-lipped smile as she crosses the threshold into the small room.
"Is something wrong?" Hans asks.

She gives an almost imperceptible shake of her head. His eyes trail up her body in a cursory inspection- for his reassurance.  His gaze settles on the inky tendrils of hair escaping from the tight plait it's secured in. He pictures running his fingers through it, unleashing the dark curtain of hair from its restraints. How does it feel to be able to touch her in such a familiar way, like her husband must?

"I'm going into town with Ron," she says, lifting her chin and meeting his gaze, "I wanted to let you know, so you can keep an eye out for any visitors. Be careful if you choose to leave the bedroom."

"Of course."

"Well, I should go before Ron comes looking for me." She moves to the door, shoes tapping on the hardwood floor.

Hans catches her arm, softly, stopping her at the threshold. She doesn't face him, keeping her head turned away from him, "Be safe."

"Always am."

He releases her arm and she rushes out of the room, her heels striking the floor at a rapid tempo. Stepping into the hallway Hans watches until she is out the door before wandering through the house. To pass the time he finds himself doing odd tasks around the home. Clearly, it needs a man to keep it maintained. Following along the ceiling as he looks for any discoloration like he found in the kitchen he sees the outline of an attic door. This intrigues him having not found it in his search of the house a week ago. Reaching upwards he grasps the short cord giving it a tug and the drop door opens, having been freed from its restraints a ladder slowly slides down. Unfolding it until the legs rest firmly on the floor Hans climbs the rungs up into the attic.