Undone By You
In the dim haze of a crowded bar somewhere in Europe, two soldiers from different worlds find themselves drawn to one another. She’s quiet and careful. He’s bold and charming. But in a war-torn moment suspended in time, a single spark threatens to change everything.
Pairing: Babe Heffron x Reader
Word Count: ~3,300
Genre: Fluff with a tinge of spice and flirtation
Setting: A crowded bar in Europe, early 1945
Note || My boy Babe isn’t holding back here—and honestly, can you blame him? Surrounded by war, cold, and chaos, he’s got no time to waste. With a little help from our resident troublemaker Wild Bill.
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The bar was loud, warm with laughter and the clink of glasses, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder in celebration. It smelled like cheap beer and the kind of sweat earned from surviving one more day. Somewhere in some nameless town in Europe, war had taken a night off.
Babe Heffron sat at a table with a few of his Easy Company boys—Guarnere was already halfway to drunk, and Luz was making some joke that had Roe grinning in a way he rarely did. Babe leaned back in his chair, half-listening. His sleeves were rolled up, red hair tousled from running a hand through it too many times. He liked nights like these—when they could pretend, just a little, that they were young men instead of soldiers.
But lately, even pretending took more work.
He'd spent the months after Eindhoven just trying to feel normal again. Recovery, they called it—like there was a fix for the kind of shit he’d seen. Like you could patch up a soul with bandages and bourbon. Half the time he’d just sat in silence, chain-smoking, his fingers twitching for a weapon that wasn’t there. The rest of the time, he thought about Philly. About home. About what it would feel like to walk down a street without expecting a shell to fall. About what kind of man he’d be if he weren’t sitting in another European bar soaked in cheap booze and survivor’s guilt.
The war had aged him. Fast. But he still wasn’t used to it. Twenty-one and already so fucking tired.
And then she walked in. Small. Quiet. Sharp eyes scanning the room like she regretted stepping foot in it already. She moved like she didn’t want to be seen, but Babe saw her anyway—really saw her.
She was surrounded by the taller men around her, all from another unit, judging by the way they talked and didn’t acknowledge anyone from Easy. She barely came up to one’s shoulder, swallowed by them all as they made their way to the bar.
She walked just slightly behind them, shoulders tense, head down—but her eyes kept flicking up, watchful, as if she didn’t trust the room. And maybe she shouldn’t. She was the only woman here.
Babe sat forward, straightening instinctively. His drink forgotten. His gaze locked.
There was something about her, something so jarring in this landscape of smoke and noise and testosterone. She didn’t belong, not here, not among the men drunk off relief and reckless bravado. She was something other. Something softer. Something quiet.
“Jesus, Heffron,” Guarnere muttered with a laugh, “Wipe your chin, you’re starin’ like you’ve never seen a girl before.”
Babe didn’t answer.
Didn’t blink.
Didn’t move until the woman stepped up to the bar and perched carefully on a stool, pulling her cap off and smoothing down her hair before ordering a Coke—a Coke, for Christ’s sake. The bartender barely looked at her. Her presence felt like a whisper in a room full of shouts.
He was already getting up.
“Here he goes,” Guarnere muttered to Luz, who gave an exaggerated wolf whistle that Babe ignored, “She’s from anotha’ unit,” Guarnere called after him, grinning, “Try not to scare her off!”
He made his way through the crowd like it didn’t matter, like he had every reason in the world to be walking over to her—because right then, it felt like he did.
At the bar, he slipped into the space beside her and rapped the counter twice with his knuckles, “Beer,” he said to the bartender, then glanced down. She was sipping on a glass bottle of Coke, her fingers wrapped tightly around it like it was a lifeline. When she noticed him beside her, she flicked her eyes up just for a second.
He caught it. That glimpse. Just for a second—he caught a flicker of something in her eyes. That shy little look before she turned her head again. Surprise. Caution.
He liked it.
Didn’t move away.
Didn’t stop looking.
“Didn’t expect to see a lady in a place like this,” he said, casually, “Especially not drinkin’ a Coke. You celebratin’ or hidin’?”
She blinked, lips parted like the question caught her off guard, “I...don’t really drink,” she said quietly.
Her voice was soft. Nervous. Babe liked it more than he should have.
“You always this quiet, or is it just me?” he asked, tilting his head.
And just like that, something flickered in her again. Like a match struck just once in the dark. And Babe? He leaned into the spark. She looked at him then. Really looked. And God help her, it was his smile that did it. That confident, crooked little grin that said he knew exactly what he was doing and enjoyed it.
His hair was the first thing she noticed—bright copper in the low light, messy in a way that looked deliberate, like he’d just run his hands through it before swaggering over. His face was all sharp lines softened only by the faint flush in his cheeks, and that damn smile—cocky, effortless, like he’d never had to work hard to get attention.
He stood close, not too close, but enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him. He smelled like smoke and whiskey and something else—something earthy, like worn canvas and adrenaline. And she hated the way it made her heart jump.
He wasn’t tall—not like the men in her company—but something about him made her feel even smaller. Maybe it was the way he held himself. Like he belonged in every room. Like the war hadn’t knocked him off balance the way it had her.
Or maybe it was just the way he looked at her—steadily, confidently, like he’d already decided she was something he wanted.
And no one had ever looked at her like that.
Not like she was a woman. Not like she was worth noticing.
It scared her. It thrilled her.
And when he grinned again, head tilted slightly like he could read her whole goddamn soul, she had to glance down, just to breathe, “I don’t talk to a lot of people,” she said, almost defensively, “Just my company.”
“You should branch out,” Babe said, “We’re not all assholes,” she snorted—actually snorted—and he took that as a win, “I’m Babe,” he said, offering his hand, “Well—Edward, but nobody calls me that,” she hesitated, then placed her smaller hand in his. It was warm. Her fingers fit between his perfectly.
He held on just a moment too long.
Babe hadn’t expected her to take his hand.
Hell, he hadn’t expected her to stay.
But the second her fingers slid into his—smaller, softer, careful—something in his chest shifted.
It wasn’t the kind of pull he was used to. This wasn’t about getting lucky or impressing the boys. It was quieter than that. Slower. Like gravity had decided she was the center now, and he’d be a damn fool not to orbit.
She wasn’t doing anything special. She wasn’t flirting. She wasn’t trying.
She was just there.
Soft-spoken. Guarded. Wrapped in something invisible that made him want to know her, to peel back whatever careful layers she was hiding behind.
And maybe that scared him a little, because it had been a long time since anything felt real. Since someone made him want to stop talking and just listen.
And right then? She was winning him over without even trying.
Just by standing there.
“I know who you are,” she said, so quietly he almost missed it.
Babe stilled. Not in a sharp, startled way—but like something in him paused just to take her in better. The way her lashes dipped after she spoke, like she regretted it the second it left her mouth. Like she didn’t realize the power she had in saying it.
His eyebrows lifted, that crooked grin returning, slower this time, “You been askin’ about me, sweetheart?”
She flushed instantly, her eyes going wide as she jerked her hand back from his like she’d touched something too hot, “No. I mean—your unit’s talked about a lot. Around the barracks.”
Babe chuckled under his breath, but there was something else behind it—something softer, sharper. Without even realising it, he leaned in, closer, his shoulder brushing hers, his drink forgotten. He didn’t mean to crowd her, but he couldn’t help it—she pulled him in.
Not in some loud, showy way. She wasn’t batting her lashes or leaning forward like the girls back home did when they wanted to be chased.
She was just...there.
Looking up at him with those cautious eyes like she didn’t know she was already tangled around his nerves. Like she didn’t know he was the one falling into whatever trap she wasn’t even trying to set.
He dropped his voice as he tilted toward her ear, like it was just the two of them in the whole damn bar, “Good things, I hope.”
And God help him, he liked the way she swallowed hard at that—like he was already a little too close, a little too much, and she didn’t know whether to pull away or lean in.
And Babe? He was already hers, and she hadn’t even asked for it.
She nodded. But the moment stretched, and she looked like she might bolt.
Babe reached for his drink, took a sip, then set it down. He leaned his elbow on the bar and turned more fully toward her.
“You from Philly?” he asked.
She shook her head, “North Carolina.”
“Explains the sweet,” he said.
She blinked, confused, “What?”
He grinned again, slower this time, “Your voice. It’s sweet. Kinda soft. Like honey or something,” her mouth parted again, breath hitching in her throat.
She was not used to attention. Not like this. And definitely not from someone who looked at her like that—like he was already undressing her in his mind and savoring every second of it.
Babe tried to look away. Tried to bite back the images starting to flicker through his mind like film reels he hadn’t asked to load. But it was useless. She looked at him with wide eyes, caught somewhere between flustered and curious, and that was dangerous. That look could undo a man if he wasn’t careful.
He took a sip of his beer, hoping the bitterness might ground him, but all it did was give him a second to imagine what her lips might taste like instead.
Christ, get it together, he thought.
But he couldn’t help it.
Couldn’t stop the way his mind wandered—how she’d look in the morning light, bare and soft, curled up in sheets with that shy little smile that probably didn’t come out often. Or the way her voice—already sweet as honey—might sound breathless in the dark, whispering his name like a secret.
He wondered if she’d melt under his hands, the way she seemed to melt under his gaze. If she’d be gentle or if there was something else simmering under all that quiet—something only he’d get to see.
The thought alone made heat crawl up the back of his neck.
And as she sat there, cheeks flushed, lashes fluttering, still holding tight to that Coke bottle like it might save her from him—he realised something that hit deeper than just want—it wasn’t just any girl making him feel this way.
It was her.
And that? That made it so much worse.
So much better.
“I, um...should probably get back to my group—”
“Let them wait,” Babe said easily, “You got any idea how rare it is to find a lady like you in a dump like this? I ain’t wastin’ it,” she swallowed.
He could tell she wanted to run. But she wasn’t. Not yet.
She swallowed. Hard.
Because no one had ever spoken to her like that—not with charm, not with heat, not with something real coiled beneath the surface.
Not like she mattered.
Back home, she’d always been the quiet one, the polite one. The girl who kept her head down, followed orders, didn’t draw attention. Even in her unit, the men looked at her like a sister, or worse, like she wasn’t there at all.
But Babe Heffron?
He looked at her like she was everything.
Like the room had blurred behind her.
Like she wasn’t just some girl in uniform—she was the girl.
It made her dizzy. It made her nervous.
And it made her want to stay.
She’d heard of him before—Heffron, Easy Company. The stories drifted around the barracks like smoke, names passed in hushed admiration or jealous awe. The redhead from Philly who fought like hell and laughed louder than anyone had a right to in times like these.
She never thought he would see her.
And now here he was—closer than he should be, calling her sweet, telling her to stay, like the whole damn war could wait.
And she’d never felt so acknowledged in her entire life.
She whispered, “You’re very...forward.”
He chuckled lowly and leaned down until his mouth was next to her ear, “That a bad thing, sweetheart?” her breath caught. Her heart was hammering. His scent was all whiskey and cigarettes and something warmer underneath. Her fingers tightened around her Coke like it could anchor her. She didn’t answer. And that silence—it was almost louder than anything else in the room. Babe pulled back just enough to meet her eyes again, “You’re nervous,” he murmured.
“I don’t do this.”
“Don’t do what?” his voice dipped, his gaze dropping to her lips.
Her voice barely came out, fragile as spun glass, “Talk to guys. Like…this.”
Babe blinked, just for a second.
It wasn’t the words that got him—it was the way she said them. Like this wasn’t just new, it was foreign.
Like no one had ever leaned in close and made her feel seen. Like no guy had ever given her a reason to speak softer, to blush this hard, to wonder if her heartbeat was too damn loud.
He stared at her, eyebrows ticking up, the faintest flicker of surprise in his eyes.
“You serious?” he asked, not teasing—curious.
She nodded once, eyes dropping, like she regretted admitting it. Like it was something to be ashamed of.
And Babe? He wasn’t smug now. He was floored.
Because the girl standing in front of him—shy, sharp-eyed, sweet as hell—was the kind of woman most guys would fall all over themselves for. And the fact that no one had bothered before?
That made his jaw clench a little.
And made him want to be the first and last guy she ever talked to like this, “Then let me make it easy,” he said. His thumb brushed a strand of hair behind her ear, “Just sit with me. One drink. No pressure,” she stared at him. Torn between fear and something new bubbling inside her.
Then, after a long pause, she whispered, “Okay,” that single word left her lips like a secret, delicate and uncertain, but Babe heard it loud and clear. His grin returned—slower this time, softer, like it was just for her.
He offered his hand again, and she took it without thinking. He guided her through the crowd, his fingers curling around hers like they were something to protect. He didn’t let go, not even when they reached a quieter corner table at the edge of the bar—away from the rowdy laughter and sloshing drinks.
“Didn’t catch your name,” he said as he pulled out a chair for her—gentleman-like, but with a glint in his eye that suggested anything but innocence.
She hesitated, then murmured, “Y/N,” like it might disappear if said too loudly.
“Y/N,” Babe let it roll off his tongue, testing the sound, smiling like it was something he wanted to remember for the rest of his life, “Pretty name. Suits you,” she looked down, her cheeks heating again, “So,” he said, leaning in across the small table, forearms resting casually on the wood, “North Carolina, doesn’t drink, hasn’t flirted with a guy before…tell me, what do you do when you’re not knockin’ all of us dead just by walkin’ into a room?”
She huffed a laugh—half disbelief, half nerves, “I…read a lot.”
“Dangerous,” he murmured, his smile widening, “Smart and quiet. Real lethal combo.”
She laughed under her breath, “You’re laying it on pretty thick.”
He leaned in closer, eyes locked to hers, “Only ‘cause it’s true.”
Their drinks came—another Coke for her, beer for him—but he didn’t look away, not once. He asked more questions, asked about her training, what base she was stationed at before, if she missed home. And he listened. Really listened. And every now and then, he’d lean in just a little more.
At one point, when she said something about how her brothers used to tease her accent, he reached over without thinking, brushing his thumb along the edge of her jaw—just enough to make her breath catch.
“Don’t let ‘em take that from you,” he said, “That voice? Sweetest thing I’ve heard in years.”
And she froze.
Because now—now he was close. So close.
He’d leaned in again, his elbow on the back of her chair, that crooked grin flickering to something deeper, something darker, something that sat right between affection and want. His knee brushed hers beneath the table. His eyes dropped to her lips—barely for a second—but she felt it.
She could feel the warmth of his breath, faint and heady with beer. If she moved, just the tiniest bit—tilted her head forward, maybe said his name—she’d be kissing him.
And the worst part?
She wanted to.
She wanted to know how he’d taste, how he’d touch, how it would feel to let someone like Babe Heffron undo her completely.
She swallowed hard, eyes flickering nervously between his lips and his steady, confident gaze. Finally, she whispered, almost afraid he’d mishear, “I’ve… never done something like this before.”
The confession hung in the air between them, fragile and honest. Babe’s grin softened into something warmer, more protective. He reached out, lightly tracing a thumb along the back of her hand.
“Hey,” he said gently, voice low enough so only she could hear, “If at any point you wanna stop—say the word. I’ll back off, no questions asked. No pressure, no bullshit,” she nodded, biting her lip, her heart racing so loud she was sure he could hear it, “But,” he added, his eyes darkening with a promise that made her breath hitch, “If you don’t want me to stop...then I’ll make damn sure this is the best damn thing you ever experience. The only one you’ll ever need.”
His words wrapped around her like a promise and a dare all at once. She hesitated, then looked up—right into those fierce, honest eyes—and for the first time, she let herself believe it.
That maybe, just maybe, this could be the beginning of something she never thought she’d have.
Something real.
Something unforgettable.
Her pulse thundered in her ears, but she held his gaze, searching for any sign of doubt or mockery—and found none. Only the steady warmth of someone who meant every word.
Slowly, she nodded again, a whisper of trust weaving through her nerves, “Okay,” she said, voice barely above a breath.
Babe’s smile deepened, that crooked, winning grin that made her feel both safe and dangerously alive. He reached out, fingers brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, his touch feather-light but electric.
“Good,” he murmured, “Because I plan on making this night one you won’t forget. And I’m not just talking about the drinks.”
Her cheeks flushed hotter, but she didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned in just a little, the space between them shrinking until her breath mingled with his.
The world around them blurred—no shouting men, no clinking glasses, just the quiet heat building between two people who knew this moment was the start of something neither of them could quite put into words yet.
And Babe? He was already planning every next move.
