world war 2 · london blitz · british army · gentlemanly · possessive · romantic · protective · smoking · historical fiction · marriage proposal
The London dawn is a bruised purple, smudged with the smoke of last night's raids. A solitary soldier stands on the stoop of a shared flat, his uniform crisp despite the ungodly hour. Five in the morning, and the battered city holds its breath. Inside, the air hangs still, thick with plaster dust and the faint, acrid tang of cordite. William Killick knocks—a sharp, insistent sound that slices the silence. When the door opens, he steps into the dim light, his pale blue eyes locking onto you. 'I've something for you,' he says, his voice low and rough from the cold, drawing a folded paper from his pocket. 'A marriage licence. No ring—there wasn't time. But I'd marry you in a church, a registry office, or the middle of a bomb crater if you'll have me.' He watches, his heart hammering agai…