MIDSUMMER LOVE
Summary: in which George Luz spends no less than five summers swooning over the lovely girl living next door.
Request: Hi rogue!! Idk if you still use the prompts you have listed but if so, may I request prompt 37 (“I’ve actually practiced this.” “Asking me out?” “Yes.”) with Luz? Can it be fluffy too?
Pairing: George Luz x Reader
Genre: Fluff
Tags:
Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @gotxpenny @ecompstolemysoul @torchbearerkyle @easily-obsessed-with-things @fromjupitertocentauri @luvrottt @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy
Permanent taglist: @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @comfort-reads
Warnings: smoking
A/N: I had to MILDLY edit the prompt for it to fit into the dialogue more naturally but it's still there. God this is such a change from what I've been writing these past months, kind of a breath of fresh air ngl. I wrote this listening to Forever by Noah Kahan, letting y'all know just in case you wanna get in the mood Hope you enjoy it <3
Band of Brothers masterlist
Rogue-durin-16 masterlist
Late June, 1941
The racket going outside wasn't exactly characteristic of a Saturday afternoon. Doors slamming, voices shouting, something heavy thudding against the wooden planks of a porch. I sat up from the couch, craning my neck toward the window just as my mother called out from the kitchen.
"George! Os vizinhos chegaram!" She wiped her hands on her apron, walking out the kitchen and into the living room. "Vai lá fora e pergunta se precisam de ajuda." She commanded, nodding at our front door.
Knowing better than to complain, I dragged myself off the couch and toward the front door. "Sim, mãe." I muttered, poorly slipping into my shoes in order not to step barefoot onto our porch.
I squinted at the house on our right. Their small front yard was cluttered with mismatched furniture. A man stood halfway in the back of a Ford truck, tugging at what looked like a lamp and getting nowhere with it. A woman—maybe his wife—was pointing toward the porch, yelling something I couldn't make out.
I looked back into our house, only to be met by my mother's quiet gestures for me to go over. "Jesus Christ." I cleared my throat, and walked over to lean on the fence separating our properties. "Hey! You folks need any he—"
I didn't finish the sentence.
The most beautiful girl I'd ever seen stepped out of the house, wearing a sundress that fluttered around her knees and a bandana holding her locks out of her face. She moved across the porch with a kind of rhythm that made everything else slow down. A box balanced on her hip, a notebook tucked under one arm.
Her landed on me, bright and curious, and I just gaped like an idiot. For the first time in my life, I had no idea what the hell to say.
So I laughed—awkward and breathy—and gave a small wave. Hopefully, that would be enough to salvage whatever dignity I wished to have. She squinted at me for half a second, then smiled.
God help me.
She walked down her porch steps and stopped at the fence, right across from where I stood. The box was carefully dropped by her side with a strained sigh before she spoke.
"Hey."
"Hey," I managed. Barely. She blinked at me, half expectant, half amused. "Morning,"
"You mean afternoon."
"What?"
"You said morning," she repeated, letting out a soft chuckle. "It's..." she checked her wristwatch and snorted. "nearly four in the afternoon."
Jesus, was she laughing at me? Did I care?
"Shit, right. Welcome—" My voice cracked. I coughed and cleared my throat. "—welcome to the neighborhood."
"Thanks." Her smile tilted further into amusement. "You always stare at people like that?"
"Only when they drop outta the sky."
She laughed, loud and honest, and it felt like sunlight cracked through my ribs. "I'm Y/n. Y/l/n." She held out her hand over the fence.
I stared at it for half a second too long before I wiped my palm on my shorts and took it. How much of a fool could I make of myself in a couple of minutes? "George Luz," I said, my voice a bit steadier this time. "I live next door." I added, pointing behind me with my left hand.
"No shit." She commented with a tinge of harmless sarcasm. Her grip was firm and confident. Not the dainty kind of handshake my ma always said was proper. "Well, Luz-next-door, nice to meet you."
"Likewise," I gave her a wide grin. "You need help with anything?"
She tilted her head, musing the offer. "Think you can help me carry in a record player that weighs as much as a small car?"
"I've lifted worse," I half lied, already walking around the fence to enter her yard. "But only 'cause Ma makes me take out the trash every Thursday."
She let out another of those easy laughs. "You're funny. I like that."
And just like that, I knew I was screwed.
Mid July, 1942
I kicked the gravel off my boots as I came up the walk, shirt sticking to my back and fingers sore from hauling boxes at the pier. The sun was still high enough to worsen the sweat clinging to my temples on the way home, but the breeze smelled like midsummer and cut grass, and I figured I could live with that.
I had a foot on the porch's steps when I spotted Y/n, laid out on a blanket thrown over their patch of grass, book splayed open across her stomach, the shade of the tree dancing across her face. She looked like something out of a Sunday picture show—if picture shows had chipped nail polish and unruly hair tied up in a red scarf.
As if feeling my stare, one of her eyes cracked open at me, a barely contained smile twisting the corner of her lips. She marked her page with a lazy finger and sat up, brushing grass off her skirt.
"Hey, working man." she called with a grin, rising to her feet in order to wander to the fence, the book held with both hands behind her back.
"Don't tell me you've been out here reading all day while the rest of us slave away." I tossed back, tucking my hands into my pockets.
She squinted at me through the sun, both arms slung over the wood between us. "Someone's gotta preserve the nation's intellect while you lift boxes."
I puffed out a chuckle and walked over until I stood on my side of the fence, a couple feet from where she leaned. "And here I thought you were just too lazy to get a real job."
"I have a real job." she replied, faking offense, swinging idly the book to hit my arm with it. "I babysit the Terrell twins twice a week. That's worth a war medal, minimum."
I was about to quip back when I remembered what had been the hot topic at the pier. My smile fell and the quiet between us stretched for a beat. She didn't fill it with a joke—just tilted her head, waiting.
“I think I'm gonna enlist." I announced, voice a little rougher than intended.
Her brows pulled together, fingers tightening on the wood. She kept her heavy gaze on me, chin resting on her forearm like she knew the rhythm of the conversation before it even started.
"It's getting ugly," I went on, squinting at a point just past her shoulder. Maybe if I didn't look directly at her, voicing my thoughts would be easier. "And I don't wanna wait around just to get drafted."
She gave me a slow nod, like she understood everything I wasn't saying and chose not to press.
"I heard about this Airborne thing. Mendonça—he's got a cousin—says it's an elite division or something." I wiped the sweat off my forehead with the back of my forearm. Anything to keep me from staying still. "They pay fifty dollars a month more."
"Gonna aim for that one?" she finally asked, voice quiet but steady.
I scratched the back of my ear, then dug a cigarette out of my pocket and lit it with a flick of my lighter. The smoke gave me something to focus on for a second.
"If I gotta fight," I started, exhaling, "better fight with the best, right?"
She hummed softly, eyes tracing the line of smoke curling into the sky. Her face remained the same, feigning boredom perfectly—except for the slightest glimpse of worry, delicate and tight, settling behind her eyes.
Neither of us said much after that. Just stood there in the yellow haze of summer, pretending nothing had changed when we both knew it had.
Late August, 1943
The battered porch creaked under my shoes as I leaned against the railing, half a cigarette hanging from my lips, another two snug in my pocket as backup. Inside the house, it sounded like a damn circus. Ma had made a whole spread like I was home for good, and not just on borrowed time.
Pa's booming shouts in Portuguese at the poor soul who tried to sneak another slice of roast snuck out the window and into the starlit night. I smiled around the cigarette, exhaling slow, the smoke curling into the muggy summer air.
A pair of heels clicking on the sidewalk attracted my attention like a moth to a flame. Sure enough, there she went, walking down, arms folded loosely in front of her, the hem of her dress swaying just enough to make my heart lurch a little. The streetlight caught in her hair—it seemed longer than I remembered—, and made it gleam just a little. She might as well have been an angel pulled straight from a dream.
I cupped my hand around my mouth and called, "Where's a dame like you coming from at these hours?!"
She stopped dead in her tracks, turned toward my voice. It took her a second to find me under the shadows of the roof, with only the amber tip of the cigarette as beacon.
And then she smiled.
"You're back!" she said, with enough excitement to make my stomach flip.
"Sure am." I tapped the ash off the end of the smoke. "Ma put up enough food to feed a platoon."
"And I was not invited?" she took a hand to her chest with a gasp.
"I went knocking on your door. Your folks said you were away."
"Benny from down the street took me to the movies." she informed me, tucking an unruly strand of hair behind her ear.
I squinted. "And Benny from down the street didn't walk you home?"
"Nope."
I clicked my tongue and took a drag. "Does he not know how to treat a lady?"
"He's a bore." Y/n stated, waving a dismissive hand at me. "I walked him home." She strolled into the yard and stopped just in front of the porch. "Didn't want the boy thinking he was getting a kiss at the doorway." She tilted her chin up to meet my eyes, fixed on her from above. I leaned in, resting my upper body on the railing to be closer to her.
"Poor Benny," I mockingly pouted. "Didn't even know he'd been demoted mid-date from neighbor to bore."
She breathed out a laugh and reached to hold onto the railing, her pinky finger nearly brushing my thumb.
"You look good, Luz." she whispered, soft and genuine.
I pulled the cigarette from my lips and dropped it into the dirt below. "Don't I always?"
She rolled her eyes, but her smile widened. "When'd you get back?"
"This morning. Dropped right into chaos." I gestured over my shoulder with my thumb. "You know 'em. Dot refusing to let go of my arm, Ma crying into the roast beef, Pa fussing over the uniform."
Y/n's pinky tapped my thumb. "They're shipping you out, then?"
"Yeah, in a few days." I swung my foot between the posts distractedly. "Gonna miss my mom's cooking."
Her gaze flicked up to mine, tentative. Maybe shy. "Gonna miss other things?"
I shrugged, a little slower this time. "Maybe."
We stood in the lull—cicadas buzzing, the muffled laughter from inside, and that quiet we never dared to break.
"You gonna write to me?" I asked, unsure about wanting to know the answer.
She looked away for a second. Then back up at me. "Dunno. Are you gonna come back?"
Just a joke. Just a joke, right?
"I'll try." I promised.
"Then maybe I'll try too."
I looked at her a long moment, trying to memorize her face, the exact way her lips twitched when she tried not to smile, the way her dress clung to the soft summer breeze.
"Take care of yourself out there, George."
I gave her a half-smile. "Yes, ma'am."
Her hand left the railing to cling to my shirt, tugging me further down. My heart skipped a beat when she stood on her tiptoes, her lips pressing a kiss right by the corner of my mouth.
She didn't say anything else—didn't even look at me—, just backed away with flushed cheeks in her house's direction.
Early September, 1944
I was mid joke when the mail came. a cigarette hanging from my lips, another one tucked behind my ear as I tried to lift up the company's spirits in yet another gray English morning. Those damn powdered eggs and the smell in the barn turned mess hall weren't doing us any favors, but maybe the jokes would. The letters from home helped, too.
Yeah, the envelope dropped by my tray with my name written in Y/n's handwriting definitely helped.
The familiar perfume clung to the piece of paper made me stall a beat too long after opening it. Long enough for Skip to snatch it off my hands.
"What's this?"
"Give it back."
"Luz has a girl writing him love letters?" he said, leaning away from me with a wicked grin. "What's the world coming to?"
"Jesus Christ, Skip—"
“Let's see—'Dear George'—" he started in a mocking voice.
I grabbed it out of his hands so fast his coffee sloshed. "Mind your business for a minute." I made sure to smack the back of his neck as I swung my leg across the wood bench. "Running your mouth like you don't got Faye's letters under your pillow." I tsked my tongue at him before walking out of the mess hall with the letter in one hand an the envelope in the other.
«Dear George,
Don't faint—I finally found time to write back.
It’s been hot as hell here. I hope the weather is better in Europe. I've been helping your Ma, so there's always something that—she claims—needs doing. I think if I mop that kitchen one more time I might go mad.
Your sister Victoria's got herself a fella now. From Providence. Drives a truck and wears too much cologne. Your Ma says he's "inoffensive", which is the Luz family seal of approval, I guess.
I read about Normandy in the papers. Bobby—Nadia's brother—he died in the landings. Nadia said they told her he didn't make it past the beach. Nearly half the boys from the neighborhood are gone. No one wants to talk about it.
I check the papers for your name all the time. Pa thinks I'm in love or something. I told him I'm just nosey. I didn't tell him I miss you more than I thought I would.
Please come back, preferably in one piece.
Yours, Y/n»
Yours. God, I wish.
I carefully folded the letter and put it back in the envelope to tuck it into my breast pocket. Tapped it twice.
I tossed the burnt cigarette to the gravel, let a new one and went back to the boys trying to ignore the way my heartbeat thrummed in my chest.
Late September, 1945
READER'S P. O. V.
The hem of my skirt was clinging to my calves with the late summer heat, and the iron in my hand let out an impatient hiss every time I paused to yank at the wrinkled sheet beneath it. I could hear my ma somewhere over the living room, probably trying to keep herself busy.
Then, a knock came. It wasn't rushed. Just firm. One—two—pause. Three.
"Ma!" I called out, trying not to burn my fingers. "Can you get that?"
No reply.
The knock at the door came again, quicker this time.
"Ma!"
Nothing.
I rolled my eyes, set the iron aside, and wiped my palms on the front of my skirt. The bandana keeping my hair out of my face had slipped a little with the humidity, and I pushed it back up without much thought as I made my way through the front room.
"I swear," I muttered, swinging the door open with half a huff, "if this is about selling me more—"
I stopped breathing, because George Luz stood on my front porch in full dress uniform, the same roguish slant to his grin—maybe a little duller now, a little unsure. His hair was shorter than I remembered, but his eyes hadn't changed one bit.
"Jesus—"
He gave me a mock salute, a bit too proud of himself for it to be genuine. "I came back. In one piece."
My hand trembled against the edge of the doorframe. I gripped it to keep it from showing.
He was real. He was standing right there. He was okay. I stared at him for so long he shifted on his feet, clearing his throat "You're supposed to say 'good timing, soldier'," he mocked a Hollywood-like voice. "or, y'know, fall into my arms or something."
I should've laughed. Should've followed the joke, but after going two years without seeing him—without knowing if he was alive—, the only thing I saw myself capable of doing was step forward and throw my arms around him tighter than I meant to. His cap tumbled off the back of his head and landed somewhere behind him, but he didn't seem to care. He pulled me in just as tight, chin tucked over my shoulder like he'd been carrying this hug since the day he left.
Half a minute passed, or half an hour. I wasn't counting anymore. I only let go when I felt his hands twitch at my waist. When I pulled back, my eyes burned. If George caught on it, he didn't say a word.
I reached up to adjust the bandana that had slipped again during the hug, but George beat me to it. He fixed it gently, helping me tuck in the stray strands, his hands bumping my own with our actions.
"So," he said, crouching with a complaining groan to grab the cap, "This was supposed to go differently. I had a whole line."
"A line?" I blinked at him, not quite following yet.
"Yeah. I've actually practiced it. In front of a mirror. Twice." He winced. "Felt real stupid, but y'know, sometimes a man's gotta do what he's gotta do."
I tilted my head, trying to read him. "A line for what?"
"For asking you out." He scratched at the back of his neck. "It was a real good line too. Something about the war being awful and the food being worse, and missing the summers here and hearing your voice through the fence." He nodded at the barrier between our yards. "Kind of fucked it up."
"You practiced asking me out?" I questioned, half amused, half disbelieving.
"Yes! Have you gone mad?" He snorted like I was being stupid, but I didn't miss the way the tips of his ears turned pink. "You thought I'd show up here improvising?"
"You're good at improvising."
"I wanted to be better."
I exhaled, almost a laugh, but it caught at the end and turned into something softer. "Wanna go back and practice it once more? Three time's the charm."
An almost offended laugh escaped George, his shoe pivoting to do a half turn. "Screw you."
"That's no way to talk to a lady." I joked, catching his hand with mine, still shaking slightly, when he pretended to step away. "I'm joking." George returned to me without much complaining. "Just ask, you know what the answer's gonna be."
"Do I?"
"George—"
"Go out with me." The jokester attitude fell for half a second; long enough for me to realize he was wearing his heart on his sleeve. "Please?"
"Hmm... Dunno,"
"Y/n, c'mon—"
"Yes." His warm eyes lit up, and so did my cheeks when his fingers intertwined with mine. "Let me change first."
"Wait, now?" He frowned, the open-mouthed smile not once leaving his face.
"I waited five years for you to ask me out." I tossed my bandana at his frozen form, still standing at the doorway. "I'm not waiting around."
Whatever mockery was leaving his loud mouth didn't reach the upper flight of stairs when I rushed up to my room. He'd have time to make fun of my eagerness later, and I doubted I would care. He came back to me, that's all that mattered.