Devoted

Hans stands behind her, pulling the brush through her inky black hair, letting strands fall through his fingertips. It's as soft as he's imagined, and he wants to fully run his fingers through her hair and massage her scalp but doesn't. Now is not the time; clearly, something is bothering her. He isn't stupid to think her outburst of anger earlier is from something he has done. The opened letter lying on her dresser clues him in on her turmoil.

"Tell of him," he says, continuing the soft strokes of the brush as she visibly relaxes before him, "Your husband."

He watches her reaction in the mirror's reflection, how her eyes flutter open to look at herself. She seems to weigh the question in her mind for a moment, and he allows her the time to think. He works the brush through her mane of hair until it's like silk and tangle-free.

"We met on a night out, he was handsome. I tried not to give him any time of my day at first. Too many girls would fall for a dashing soldier and have their hearts broken when they didn't return. The pilots mostly," she pauses as she wipes a tear from her eye and his chest constricts, "And he was a pilot, but he weaseled his way in. It wasn't hard for him. He's so charming and kind it just all fell into place."

"You marry?" Hans questions, his hands still in her hair as jealousy rises like bile in the back of his throat. He has no right to feel jealous but he does.

Florence laughs running a hand across her belly, "Well he wanted it to be done right, even if out of order. I wanted to hide the pregnancy for a while, they needed my help at the hospital. James refused and the next thing I knew we were married. We had planned to marry once the war was over so I can't really complain, can I?"

Hans met her gaze in the mirror uncertain if he was to answer this question or not. It seemed foolish to deny her of her passion for nursing and why is she out here alone? Surely arrangements could be made for her to stay near her husband.

"They stop you from nursing?"

She nods, face falling as she leans forward pulling her hair from his grasp. He sets the brush on the dresser using it as a chance to be close to her again as his chest brushes her back. Feeling bold he speaks what comes to his mind.

"He stops you."

Florence turns in the chair, her head snapping up to look at him, her gaze hard. He is unmoved not backing down from his stance and she looks away.

"It's the right thing, I know it is. He did what was best." She says softly.

Hans takes her chin gently between his thumb and forefinger pulling her head up to look at him as he shakes his head, "No it's not right. My wife a secretary, she work til baby. You too."

Florence recoils from his touch making him retreat thinking it was too much. Has he been out of touch with women so long he's misread the situation happening right now? When he looks at her he doesn't see fear or disgust, just a sense of sadness in her green eyes. "I didn't know you were married, or a baby."

Hans tugs his trouser legs up before dropping to his knees beside Florence, leveling their field of vision. The knot in his throat grows as he runs his tongue along the back of his teeth in thought. He's unsure how to say his feelings to her. He's never done this, not even with Herta. "Yes, years ago. They killed in bombing, Hanna too."

A sound caught between a gasp and a sob comes from Florence. He reaches out and she immediately clasps his hands in hers squeezing them. She looks at him with sorrow but he doesn't feel pitied by her, maybe understood. "I'm so sorry." She whispers as a tear escapes her long dark lashes.

He wishes to kiss it away but is fearful that would push her over the edge and he wasn't about to place a rift between them now. She is finally looking at him for who he is, what he is- a man. His heart hammers in his chest at this breakthrough, not even the dark reality of moving in on a fighting man's wife could touch him at this moment. They lean towards each other as if pulled by some imaginary force until her sweet, minty breath mingles with his own. The hairs on his arms rise in anticipation at feeling her plump lips against his, to have some small piece of her as his own. Her eyes close, breath feather light against his sensitive skin as he closes the distance between them.