The color of love and blood
World War 1 Soldier x Nurse reader
Slow burn, childhood friends, reunion, historical romance, bittersweet, mutual pining, fluff, mental health themes, injury, death
Set in Northern France during World War 1
During the First World War in 1916, in a red cross hospital, two people who once shared the same classroom met again. Not as children, not as carefree students, or teenagers, but as grown adults whose hands and souls are hardened by war — a soldier and a nurse. Not a great romance that has a twist and perfect endings, but instead a simple, quiet love story between two souls.
Before the war she grew up in a village tucked between fields and the woods in the North of France, the village of Saint-Riquier lived in a rhythm with the four seasons. It was the kind of place where time seemed quiet and peaceful. Bells chimed every morning. The sounds of children laughing and smell oc freshly baked bread always filled the village.
There was a small school, a bakery, a church, a modest doctor's office, and a market every Sunday right after Mass. People there knew each other by name, always quick to help another.
She hadn't always lived there; her accent was proof of that. But she had come to the village at a young age. Grew in the town's customs, learned to speak fluent French, and fitted in with its people. At some point, it was like she never moved there at all, but as someone who belonged.
She thought that she'd never leave, that she'd live her entire life there, maybe get married and grow old. But once the war had started, people slowly started leaving. First, a few men who either got drafted or volunteered. One of which was her friend, James Laurent, though they never got to grow too close, she still shed a few tears when she found out he had left to fight. As the war grew more and more aggressive, the village got emptier.
More men were needed to fight. Some went willingly, others fled the village with their families in order to avoid fighting. The laughter that once filled the village thinned and then stopped altogether. The bells still rang, but it wasn't the same; it felt darker, more sinister. And the girls, young women like her, started to leave too. Not to fight, but to heal. To take care of the men who were fighting every day to protect them, to protect their country.
She, too, felt the urge to leave, to go where she is needed the most. The war had already taken so much. She wouldn't let it take her will to help.
She packed what she could carry and boarded a train, not knowing if she'd return.
She sat in her dimly lit room. Though it was a bit of an overstatement to call it a room, as it was just a small tent that was pitched amongst dozens of others besides makeshift wooden buildings that made up the Red Cross field Hospital.
She had been at this particular post for about 6 months. Shed often moved from hospital to hospital, going where nurses were needed the most. This was the closest she's ever been to the Western Front.
The sun long set outside, a chilly autumn night. Beyond her room, she heard faint voices. Mostly other nurses who were working the night rotations, and some groans from patients who grew restless.
Still in her uniform stained with blood, sweat, and even some tears. Both tears of her own and tears from the many soldiers she’d hold and comfort whilst they wept in her arms, and she had always cried with them. She couldn't help it.
Sympathetic and a bit sensitive, she had always been. But strong always the one to comfort, shelter, and hold. Yet no one to do the same for her here.
She sat at the desk writing a letter to her sick mother, who had been sick with tuberculosis.
It rained again. The garden behind me is starting to flood, but thankfully, I managed to save some of the vegetables I had grown. I’m thinking of sending a few to the soldiers out at the front. I imagine they haven’t had anything fresh in months. A small gesture, I suppose — a way to say thank you, even if it’s not enough . They’re bringing in more and more boys every day now, and somehow, they keep getting younger. Some look no older than I was when I first left school. One of them called me “angel” before he passed out. It stayed with me. The head nurses and Matrons call us nurses by our surnames — like how our teachers did in school. Something is comforting in it, but those days are far behind me now. Still, I try to remember why I’m here. What I came for. Who I came for. I’m sorry I left you, even knowing you’re still sick. I know you wanted me to go, to serve, to help where I could. I wouldn’t have gone if it weren’t for you. Your strength pushed me forward. But I miss you. Every single day. If I can find a way to visit, I will. Things here grow busier with each passing day, but I promise I’ll try.
I love you. And I miss you.
She folded the paper and put it into a slightly yellow envelope, licking the seal shut. She pressed it to her chest and let out a deep sigh. She’d mail it tomorrow, hoping the courier would come and hoping the letter would reach her mother.
It was never a guarantee that the letters would be sent, but she hoped. She stood up from her desk and looked over at the clock, which read 11:37 PM. She had stayed up late again, tending to the soldiers while most of the other nurses had slept, and to write the letter.
Yawning, she threw off her uniform and washed her face in the bowl of water on her nightstand. She changed into her night gown and crawled into bed, limbs still sore and her mind still heavy, always heavy.
She drifted into a dreamless sleep.
The distant sound of footsteps, bells ringing, and stretchers being wheeled down the halls stirred her from sleep. Her eyes fluttered open, and a quiet groan escaped her lips. The clock on the wall read 5:00 a.m. — only thirty minutes before her shift began.
She hadn’t gotten much rest, but enough to keep her going.
Slowly, she rose from her cot, stretching her limbs with a sigh. She shuffled the basin of water, grabbed her toothbrush, made of worn boar-bristle and a tin of toothpowder made from baking soda, and brushed her teeth quickly. Once she was finished, she made her way to her small trunk and pulled out a clean uniform.
A long, blue-grey ankle-length dress. She slipped it on, then fastened a crisp white apron over it. She tied it tightly around her waist, smoothing the front with her hands.
Her hair was pinned into a neat, appropriate style before she carefully secured her nurse’s cap in place, always precise, never tilted. Stockings came next, then her shoes — creased and slightly dirty from days of wear.
Before stepping out, she put on her favorite shawl to protect herself from the autumn chill. The shawl was given to her by her mother when she was younger, it carried the faint smell of vanilla.
She paused to glance at herself in the mirror.
Some mornings, she barely recognized the woman staring back. Dark circles hung beneath her eyes, and fatigue to her face. But there was still something there. A tired but hopeful expression.
She opened a small tin and applied a thin layer of beeswax to her lips — something to keep them from cracking in the cold, dry air. A small comfort in her morning routine, but one that helped her feel just a bit more like herself.
She took a deep breath and stepped outside, ready to face the long day ahead.
She stepped out of her tent. The sky was still dark but the sun was just starting to peak out. As she made her way into the staff room she could hear the gravel softly crunching as she walked.
As she stepped into the room, the faint smell of antiseptic and metal hit her nose. A smell that was nothing like back home, but she had grown used to it.
She quietly stood in the back of the room, holding a notebook and a pencil, ready to jot down her assignments.
Murmurs filled the room as more nurses filtered in. A young nurse, named Charlotte Smith, made her way towards Y/N holding two mugs of coffee. She was a beautiful woman with rich, dark skin and striking ebony features, a little short and a bit shy. She had her curly hair tied into a bun. She was an American from Chicago, no older than 20. She had volunteered to be a war nurse not too long after the war had begun.
"I bought you some coffee" she spoke. Handing Y/N a mug.
"Thank you, Charlotte," Y/N replied with a soft smile. You're too kind."
"Not a problem. I'd imagine today will be long, just like the others," Said Charlotte.
At exactly 5:45 AM, the doors creaked open. Sister Marget Duvall, the head nurse, stepped inside. Her presence alone was enough to silence the room.
Marget Duvall was an older , somewhere in her late 40s to early 50s. Both a devoted nun and nurse. She was a tall, slender woman. She had worked as a nurse well before the war had begun. Most likely before Y/N was even born.
She was a stern, practical catholic woman with a no-nonsense attitude, always in her pristine uniform and black veil.
Although she could be a bit intimidating, there was a motherly warmth about her, a soft spot. Though she never said it, the girls were like daughters to her. Daughters should be treated with a strict but loving hand.
"Bonjour," she finally spoke. "We had two deaths overnight. One of which was expected and one that was not". A few of the nurses bowed their heads in remorse. "Private Malcolm Hayes, pneumonia, and Lieutenant Arthur Deveraux, complications from amputation. Both found unconscious earlier this morning."
Y/N let out a quiet sigh. She had just spoken to Arthur last night. He had lost his left leg during combat.
He was inconsolable when he first arrived, screaming in both pain and disbelief at his now missing leg, but Y/N managed to calm him down just a little bit into quiet sobs. She sat beside him, not leaving his side during the worst of it.
She stroked his hair gently and whispered to him.
"You're going to be all right," she told him. "You'll go home soon. You'll see your family again."
Later on when the morphine had set in, she read to him a poem from her favorite book of poetry, a gift she was given by a boy during her school days. A friend she'd occasionally think of.
Arthur had fallen asleep to the sound of her voice and the candlelight.
"They've been recorded and are currently being prepped for transport. Their bodies are to be sent back home later today. If anyone would like to say their goodbyes, you will have a chance to during lunch hour," Sister Duvall said.
She flipped to another page of her notebook.
"There's to be an inspection by medical command in 2 days. I expect you all to be on your best behavior and looking presentable. That means clean and ironed uniforms, neat hair, and absolutely no fraternizing". Sister Duvall said sternly.
Y/N had, in the corner of her eye, caught a glance of Jeanne Dubois rolling her eyes playfully. She was a girl from Arras, just recently turned 21. She had light brown hair that was braided simply. Soft green eyes and a local French accent. She had come to help heal the wounded after her twin brother was drafted into the war. The siblings would see each other occasionally.
Jeanne was a sweet girl, a chatterbox who'd often get scolded by Sister Duvall for talking too much. Though Jeanne always remained optimistic, she would always try to brighten the day of everyone around her. She would always leave them with smiles on their faces.
"Now for your assignments. Nurse Smith, you'll focus on bed-bound patients in rooms 4 and 7." Charlotte nodded.
"Nurse Dubois, you'll assist in the triage ward today, and please try to control that mouth of yours."
"Yes, sister," Jeanne responded, hiding a cheeky smile.
"Nurse Williams and Nurse L/N, you'll be discharging the healed, and after lunch, you will report in the west wing. You'll be taking care of new transport patients.
Y/N looked over to Francine Williams and gave her a smile. Francine was from southern France. She had olive skin and dark wavy hair, which was tucked under her nurse's scarf, with dark eyes full of determination. She was the same age as Y/N, 22 years old.
Sister Duvall continued with the remaining assignments. When she was done, she finally raised her head from her notebook and quietly scanned the room.
"Remember, girls, these are not just men we are taking care of; they are sons, fathers, brothers, and husbands. Let's do right by them. You are all dismissed," Sister Duvall finished.
The nurses started to filter out of the room, on their way to fulfill their assignments.
Y/N walked beside Francine, notebook in hand. Francine looped her arms through Y/Ns.
"Well, at least we got discharges first. Should be a bit of an easy morning," said Francine.
"I'm not sure those are a thing anymore," Y/N said with a tired smile.
She then felt a squeeze on her shoulder. It was Jeanne. "Oh, don't be so grim, Y/N," she said with a warm expression.
"Il y a toujours du bon- there is always some good," she said.
"Like what?' Y/N asked, raising a brow.
"Like the fact that some of the men we treat are quite handsome." Jeanne grinned.
Y/N let out a chuckle. Francine chimed in, "Oh, like your dear brother?".
"Berk. Disgusting," Jeanne said, laughing. "Absolutely not".
"Speaking of, did you see the new one that came in a few days ago? Blonde with the sweetest eyes you've ever seen. I think his name is Charles, an American," Francine said.
Y/N's eyes widened a bit, surprised. Both Francine and Jeanne laughed at her reaction.
"I overheard a couple of girls fighting over who got to do his intake." Francine continued.
"I heard he had to shut it down and tell them that he's married with kids!" Y/N spoke.
"Oh, please. Soyons honnêtes. When has that stopped anyone?" Jeanne joked. The three girls let out another giggle.
For a moment, Y/N felt warm. It reminded her of her school days when she and her friends would gossip and giggle in between classes in the hallway.
"Well, I've got to get to the triage ward.À plus tard, mes amis," Jeanne said while walking off.
Francine and Y/N finally made it to their assignment. Room 2.
Y/N read the first of the discharge documents.
"Alright. Pierre Delauny, fractured arm healing well."
The pair walked up to his cot, where Pierre was already sitting up, holding his healing arm.
"Leaving us so soon, Pierre?" Francine asked, with a smile.
He grinned nervously. "I think I'll miss you two more than you'll miss me."
Y/N handed him his discharge papers and a small pouch. Inside was a cloth stitched with his initials, a bar of soap, two cigarettes, and some tea bags. A small gift that the nurses would always give to the discharged soldiers.
"Remember to check in at the recovery station and take it easy. You're still healing". Y/N said.
"Oh, I will. Just for you two," Pierre said with a wink.
Francine giggled. Y/N blushed slightly.
They walked him out and continued to the next room.
There was Corporal Lefevre bent forward as he laced up his boots. He was a handsome man, somewhere in his 30s, he had been fighting in the war since the very beginning, this however was the first time he's been seriously injured.
He had a wife of about 7 years whom he hadn't seen since he boarded the train to the front. He missed her dearly. His heart ached when he thought of her, and he always read her letters before bed which were worn at the creases.
However, no one knew this; he'd always carry a stoic and serious look on his face, he'd barely talk about himself, and only spoke when necessary. He was a well-respected man.
"You're going back to your unit?" Y/N asked.
"Yes, my men need me," he replied coldly.
"Well, stay safe," Francine said, handing him his pouch.
"I'll try," he replied, not looking up at her, as he tied his other boot.
Room by room, they helped soldiers out of bed and into their uniforms. Some left with hopeful looks on their faces, others look with fear.
As they discharged the last of the patients, the clock struck 12:30 PM. Signaling lunchtime.
"Gosh, I'm famished," Francine said. "I heard we're getting tomato soup and some bread today. You coming?" Francine asked.
"I'll meet you there. There's something I want to do first." Y/N replied.
"Alright, don't take too long," said Francine.
Y/N turned the opposite direction. She made her way to the tent where bodies of fallen soldiers were held before burial. She wanted to say her last goodbye to two soldiers who had passed away last night.
Inside, the air was cool. Two cots stood side by side. Their bodies were covered by a thin white sheet. The tent smelled of antiseptic; however, it was not enough the cover the scent of death.
She walked up to Lieutenant Arthur Deveraux's body first. She quietly recited the poem that she had read to him hours before he passed. A tear ran through her cheek, which she brushed away.
Next, she walked to the body of Private Malcolm Hayes. Although she didn't have many interactions with him, but he was polite and he'd always greet her with a smile. She knelt down and said a quick prayer.
Once she was finished, she made her way back to rejoin the living, the staff room where lunch was being held.
The staff room was buzzing with chatter and the sound of metal spoons against tin bowls. The smell of fresh tomato soup made Y/Ns stomach growl, she didn't realize how hungry she was.
She quickly grabbed a tray and went into line.
"Tomato soup and two slices of bread, please," she said to the cook.
The cook ladled a generous scoop of soup and put two thick slices of bread on her tray. She smiled and let out a quiet "Merci."
She scanned the room and spotted Francine, who was sitting with Jeanne.
"There she is" Francine said, waving to Y/N.
"Did you see the look on Corporal Lefevre's face? Poor man, he's been through so much and now he has to go back to the front" Jeanne said with a saddened look on her face.
"We did," Y/N said. "I hope he makes it."
"Enough gloom, Y/N and I are already gonna deal with a lot of that later this afternoon when we do intake," Francine said.
"Let's not speak of that yet," Y/N chimed in.
"Mind if I join you three?" said a voice. It was Charlotte, tray in her hands.
"Not at all," Jeanne said.
Charlotte sat next to Francine. Her bowl was filled to the brim, and 3 slices of bread on the tray.
"You've got quite the appetite today," Jeanne said jokingly, looking at Charlotte's tray.
Charlotte giggled. "I didn't even ask for this much! He just filled my tray."
"I think the cook has a bit of a crush on you, Charlotte," Y/N said, giggling.
Charlotte blushed and looked over her shoulder at the cook. The cook, who was now pretending to look busy by stirring the pot of soup, had clearly been looking her way. He quickly looked away when their eyes met.
"Well, he is a bit handsome," Charlotte said, still blushing.
The cook was tall with broad shoulders. Dark brown hair and warm hazel eyes. His sleeves were rolled up, which revealed his forearms. He was a gentle man, always looking out for the nurses and always sneaking snacks for them in between their rounds.
"Oh! Did you all hear? I heard they might be bringing in musicians for everyone in a couple of weeks. There's gonna be a little dance. For both soldiers and nurses." Jeanne said excitedly.
"I haven't heard music in forever," Y/N mentioned.
"We should all go together! Maybe we can find a ride into town and buy some dresses. Something simple." Charlotte said.
"That'd be great. What do you two think?" Francine said, smiling.
Both Y/N and Jeanne nodded in agreement.
Y/N smiled softly, the warmth of friendship and soup filling her heart.
The girls continued to chatter and giggle.
They were cut off by a sharp voice
All four girls turned their heads. Sister Duvall stood with her arms crossed, a firm look on her face.
"I'm sure whatever you all are discussing is very amusing," she said in a stern tone, "but may I remind you that this is a hospital, not a school yard. You are not children anymore, but young ladies."
"Yes, Sister," they said in unison, with their heads down, exchanging awkward expressions.
Duvall's expression softned. "I know its been a long morning but remember these men depend on us. Joy is a gift, enjoy it, but don't forget your duties either" she finished.
She gave them one last look and walked off in her heels.
There was a moment of silence.
"Well," Jeanne whispered, "at least she didn't take our soup."
That quickly broke the tension, and they carefully snickered softly. Hunched over their bowls, they continued their conversation more secretly.
James POV- The front line, France
Mud clung to his boots like glue, thick and heavy. Every step he took made his legs ache. He had barely slept these past few nights. His uniform was damp; the fabric clung uncomfortably to his skin. His rifle was slung over his shoulder. James had been stationed at the company for about a year now. Before that, he was in training.
The morning had been oddly quiet though he didn't mind. The company was smaller today. A few soldiers coming back from the Red Cross hospital. One of which was Pierre Delauny a comrade who became a close friend since training.
"Pierre!" James spoke. "It's good to see you. Healing up okay, are we?"
"Better than ever," Pierre replied, grinning.
"You look a little too happy for someone who just got out of the hospital."
"You'd understand," Pierre replied, his eyes filled with mischief. "If you'd been coddled by two beautiful nurses for 3 weeks straight," Pierre said, still smiling.
James rolled his eyes playfully. "You're impossible."
He thought for a moment. Of course, he's seen some beautiful women before, here and there, at dances, through train windows, and in moments during the war. But there was only one that truly took his breath away
A girl from his hometown.
They were friends for a short while in school and eventually became closer. He'd often think about her during the night when it was quiet, when it was peaceful. He thought of her warm smile and smell of vanilla. Of her gentle voice and kind eyes. He'd often wonder if she thought of him too.
After they finished school, life pulled them in different directions. She would often stay home, taking care of her ill mother; no time to go out with friends or on dates with boys.
He'd gone to work on his father's land, which was a couple of miles from the village. They rarely saw each other after that. Then the war came, and he enlisted and never got the chance to say goodbye.
But he remembered her. God, he remembered her.
His thoughts were suddenly interrupted by his other comrade. Private Dubois. Jean Dubois.
"Dreaming again, James?" he said.
"Only of warm meals and rolled cigars," James replied.
"Yeah, right," Jean said with a smirk.
A whistle blew in the distance. It was time.
James, Pierre, and Jean strapped on their helmets and adjusted the straps under their chins.
James looked over at Peirre. "You sure you're okay for this?"
"As long as I can shoot, that's all that matters," Pierre responded.
The sergeant started barking orders. "Weapons ready! Movement reported near the ravine- we are leaving in five!"
James felt sick, he always did. He reached into his pocket and grabbed a letter. Inside was a folded piece of paper. A letter that was never sent, addressed to her. He looked at it then tucked it into the inner pocket of his coat, right against his heart.
"Form up! Form up!" the sergeant yelled.
James exchanged a look with Pierre and Jean and nodded.
One by one, the soldiers climbed the ladder.
The air was filled with smoke, the sounds of gunfire and screams echoing. The gunshots grew closer and closer, though he knew not to look back, to never look back.
He ducked low and pressed forward with Jean and Pierre.
"Left flank is thinning!" Pierre shouted.
James turned. He barely had time to lift his rifle when it hit.
Suddenly, he felt a sharp, exploding pain through his left side. He stumbled for a moment; he fell over as his rifle slipped from his hands.
"James!" a voice yelled. For a split second, he swore it was her voice. Her sweet, soft voice. "James!" yelled the voice again, but this time it was Jean.
He tried to breathe, but all he could manage were short, shallow breaths. He put his hand to his side. All he could feel was warmth. Blood and lots of it.
His vision grew blurry, and just for a moment he thought of her. Her laughter and her faint smell of vanilla. He smiled weakly.
If he was going to die, he wanted his last thoughts to be something soft. As he slipped into unconsciousness. All he could think about was her.
Hands grabbed him. He was limp but still breathing. There were shouts for a medic.
James was back in the orchard behind the schoolhouse. It was late spring. A Thursday. The grass was tall and the air was warm.
He looked around. He knew where he was, but was confused as to why he was there.
Sat under a tree. Face in a book and skirt tugged underneath her.
She looked up at him. His heart skipped a beat.
"James," she said with that warm smile.
He didn't respond; he just looked at her in awe.
"Are you just going to stand there and stare?" she teased.
"I thought you liked it when I stared," James replied.
"Not when I'm trying to read," she said jokingly."Come, join me," she patted the spot next to her.
He lowered himself next to her. His arm brushed against hers. He could feel her warmth and smell the familiar scent of vanilla.
"I've missed you," he whispered.
"I never left," she replied.
Her hand reached over to brush his cheek, his eyes fluttered close. Then suddenly the breeze picked up and the bright sun turned dim. Her face grew further away.
"James?" she called out. But it wasn't soft and warm this time. It was urgent.
He tried to reach for her. But it's too late. Darkness took over him.
It was the end of lunch hour. The four girls parted ways as they made their way to their afternoon assignments.
Y/N lingered for a moment, relishing the fleeting calm before the storm. She sighed, bracing herself.
"Here they come," Francine said grimly.
Like clockwork, the silence broke.
The door suddenly burst open. With men rushing in and shouting over each other.
"We need help over here!"
Boots pounded against the floorboards. Strecher after strecher being wheeled in, the scent of blood and the smoke of gunpowder filled the air.
More and more wounded were being brought in, some barely breathing, others already gone.
Y/N and Francine exchanged a quick glance and split up.
Y/N made her way to one of the stretchers, a soldier's leg, which was drenched in blood.
"I've got this one!," she shouted.
She pressed gauze against his wound and called for bandages.
Once she was handed the fresh dressings, she wrapped his leg as tightly as she could.
"Take him to ward three," she said to the stretcher bearer and who nodded and quickly made his way.
Through the bodies and noise, Y/N didn't notice the stretcher being wheeled to the far end. The stretcher carried a familiar young soldier with chestnut hair and a torn uniform stained with blood from his wound. His hand twitched slightly.
But she didn't see him, not yet.
His eyes slowly opened, his vision a bit blurry as he looked up at the wooden beams above him. For moment, he couldn't tell if he was alive.
He tried to move, but a sharp pain attacked his side. His ribs ached with every breath. His mouth was dry, like it was full of sand.
He let out a groan, calling for someone, anyone.
"You're lucky," a voice suddenly spoke. It was one of the stretcher-bearers who helped bring him in.
"We weren't sure if you'd pull through. Bullet caught you just below the ribs. Missed anything vital, but it was close." He was an older gentleman, most likely a volunteer who was too old to fight himself.
"Could've been a different story if it'd gone an inch deeper."
He pulled up a chair next to James. Sat down and offered him some water. James, without hesitation, gulped it all down.
"Easy now. Plenty more where that came from," the man chuckled.
He shifted in his cot, finally aware of his surroundings. The sheets were coarse, and the mattress was thin. He didn't complain, though; he had been sleeping in mud for a year now.
"You're at the rear hospital. You can rest now. The nurse will be here soon to check you over. A pretty one too, gentle heart and steady hands. You're in good care".
The man sat up and walked towards the doors. But before he left, James let out a soft "Merci".
The man looked over his shoulder and said, "Just try not to die." With that, he was gone.
James stared up at the ceiling again.
"At least I'm not dead," he whispered to himself.
A few minutes later, the door suddenly creaked again.
James heard the sound of soft footsteps.
She walked in, notebook to her chest, her eyes narrowing slightly as she concentrated on the papers in her hands.
She hadn't looked up yet, too focused, her eyes burrowed in a familiar. James remembered when she would make that exact face as she solved difficult math problems back in school.
Even after all these years, he could never forget a face like hers. She looked older now, her body more matured, but one thing hadn't changed: the way she made him feel when she walked into a room.
And then there was that scent
The faint smell of vanilla.
His breath was caught; he couldn't speak, couldn't blink. Just stare.
Maybe I am dead, dead and went to heaven, he thought to himself.
She was reading his chart and said slightly under her breath. "Gunshot wound… left flank. Entry and exit. No major organs hit. Vitals unstable upon arrival. Name: Private James Laurent.."
Her breath hitched, her lips parted. She looked up.
And there he was, looking back at her with the same expression.
They stared at each other for a moment.
He smiled faintly, unsure if she remembered him or not. Unsure if this was even real.
"James..." she breathed, her heart dropping.
Note: This is my first ever story as well as my first post on Tumblr. I am still navigating how this works. Please, please leave feedback and thoughts on how I can improve. Thank you so much for reading.
I tried to be as historically accurate as possible. Please let me know if I missed anything. I will most likely come back and make adjustments.
(James is French. Since this is a self-insert, I chose for the reader to not be born in France but to have moved to France at a young age; therefore, you can choose where you are from.)
