mykindalovr

[mykindalovr]

Bridal shower crasher (Eugene Roe x fem reader)

Summary: When having your bridal shower an unexpected guest stops by

Warnings: none

No disrespect to the real band of brothers veterans this is just based on the actor portrayal

It had been a whirlwind of laughter, hugs, and too many games involving toilet paper dresses. My cheeks ached from smiling, and my heart felt as full as the cake table in the corner. My best friend was in the middle of telling some ridiculous story about me from high school when the door to the parlor opened, letting in a breeze—and him.

Eugene.

Every head turned. The room fell into that stunned hush only a man brave enough to crash a bridal shower could cause.

He stood in the doorway, his uniform slightly wrinkled like he’d come straight from somewhere important—probably the base. His dark eyes scanned the crowd until they landed on me, and all at once, the buzz of the party dulled to a hum in my ears. The bouquet in his hands looked like he’d picked every flower just for me, and judging by the way his knuckles clenched around the stems, he might’ve been more nervous than I was.

“I’m sorry, ladies,” he said quietly, his voice rough from the Louisiana heat and maybe nerves, “I know I’m not supposed to be here… but I had to see her.”

There was a collective gasp, but I was already on my feet. My heels clicked against the wooden floor as I crossed the room, every step making my heart thump louder. His eyes softened the moment I reached him, like seeing me settled something in him that had been unsettled all day.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” I whispered, smiling even as my eyes misted over.

“I know,” he murmured, holding out the flowers. “But it felt wrong not seeing you today. Even if it was just for a few minutes.”

I took the bouquet—pale pink roses, white daisies, and a few sprigs of lavender I loved so much—and brought them to my nose. They smelled like the garden I used to sit in with him back home, the one where he first told me he loved me with shaking hands and a kiss on my knuckles.

He stepped closer, close enough that I could feel the heat of him. “You look beautiful,” he said, low enough that only I could hear it.

I laughed softly, brushing my fingers along the lapel of his uniform. “You’re going to make me cry in front of everyone.”

“I’ll make it worth it.”

Then, as if none of the other women in the room existed, he leaned in and kissed me. It was gentle and quick, but it left me dizzy just the same.

One of my aunts actually sighed, and the room filled with a mix of swooning and giggles and someone muttering, “That’s love, right there.”

“I should go,” he whispered against my forehead. “Didn’t mean to steal your day.”

“You didn’t,” I whispered back, holding his hand just a second longer. “You made it better.”

And just like that, he turned and slipped back out, leaving me clutching flowers and fighting back the happiest tears of my life.

I turned back to the room, cheeks flushed and heart racing.

“Well,” I said, holding the bouquet high, “any more surprise guests I should know about?”

The room erupted into laughter again, though it was softer now—tinged with something warmer, more sentimental. A few of my friends pretended to look under the snack table or behind the curtains, and someone yelled, “Only if Dick Winters wants to show up with chocolate!”

But me—I just stood there a moment longer, watching the door Eugene had walked out of, as if maybe he’d change his mind and come back in. I could still feel the press of his lips against my forehead, the way his voice had gone low and steady just for me. It was silly, really, how a five-minute visit could settle my heart so much. He had that kind of presence. Quiet, sure, but full of a weight that made you feel like everything was going to be okay, just because he was in the room.

I returned to my seat, flowers cradled in my arms like something precious. One of the girls—the same one who had joked about Winters—gave me a nudge and whispered, “That man’s in love with you so deep it’s ridiculous.”

I bit my lip, cheeks still warm. “Yeah,” I said, tucking a sprig of lavender behind my ear, “I know.”

The rest of the party carried on, but everything had shifted slightly. The air felt lighter. Even the ribbon games and the sugar cookies shaped like wedding dresses had this new glow around them, touched by something real. Every gift I opened, every toast and memory shared, all of it came back to him—Eugene, showing up like he couldn’t help himself, like loving me was the one thing he never doubted.

Later, as the party wound down and everyone was cleaning up—half-tipsy on lemonade and nostalgia—I found a small note folded into the wrapping of one of the boxes. My name was scrawled across it in his handwriting. Simple. Careful.

I opened it with trembling fingers.

“Couldn’t wait until tomorrow. Just had to see you today. You’re going to make the most beautiful bride the world’s ever known. I’ll be the man waiting at the end of the aisle, the luckiest one in the room. —Love always, Eugene.”

I pressed the note to my chest and looked out the window toward the street, half-hoping to catch a glimpse of him walking away.

He wasn’t there, of course. But my heart followed him just the same.

[mykindalovr]

Craving (Richard Winters x Fem reader)

Summary: You're pregnant and Richard doesn't hesitate to get you what you want.

Warnings: none

No disrespect to the actual war veterans this is just based on the actor portrayal

I don’t know what time it was—late enough for the house to be silent, early enough for the moonlight to still stretch across the floor in soft silver beams. I had been tossing and turning for over an hour, trying not to wake him.

But sleep? That was impossible.

At seven months pregnant, everything ached. My back, my hips, even my ankles. The baby was doing somersaults inside me, her little feet pressing against my ribs like she was trying to redecorate in there. But worse than the discomfort, worse than the kicking, was the craving.

A very specific craving.

Sweet pickles. Crunchy pretzel sticks. And mustard. Don’t ask me why—I couldn’t explain it if I tried. All I knew was that I needed them like air. My stomach wasn’t growling, it was demanding.

I shifted again, pressing a hand to my bump as I lay on my side, trying not to think about it. I bit the inside of my cheek, hoping the absurdity of it all would help the craving pass.

Then I heard him stir behind me.

“You awake?” His voice was soft, warm with sleep.

I froze. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” I whispered, turning slightly to face him. I hated disturbing his rest. He never said it out loud, but I knew sleep still came hard for him sometimes—leftover ghosts from the war, I guessed.

But Richard never made me feel like I was a burden.

He sat up a little, the light catching the sleepy lines of his face. “Can’t sleep?”

I hesitated. “No. She’s dancing again. And… I’ve been thinking about something.”

He gave me that calm, steady look—the one that made me feel safe enough to say anything.

“It’s stupid.”

“Doesn’t sound stupid to me.”

I covered my face with one hand, muffling my voice. “I really want sweet pickles. Like… right now. And those little pretzel sticks. The crunchy kind. But also… mustard. I want to dip the pretzels in mustard and take a bite of the pickle. I know. It’s insane.”

There was a pause. I expected him to laugh, maybe gently tease me. Instead, he kissed my forehead.

And then, just like that, he was climbing out of bed.

My eyes widened. “Wait, what are you doing?”

“Getting your pickles,” he said simply, pulling on a sweatshirt.

“Richard, no! It’s the middle of the night! You don’t have to—”

But he was already lacing up his boots, half-asleep but completely determined.

“I’ll be back in fifteen.”

“Wait, are you serious?” I sat up, heart full and aching. “You really don’t have to—”

He came over to me, tucked a lock of hair behind my ear, and kissed me again. “Stay in bed. I’ll be back soon.”

And before I could protest again, he was out the door.

I stared at the door for a long time after he left, heart absolutely bursting.

This man—my husband, the brave, quiet soldier who had led others through hell and somehow came out of it still soft and whole—was now wandering through a grocery store in the middle of the night because I wanted to dip pretzels in mustard and eat them with pickles.

How did I get this lucky?

I stacked pillows behind me, rested my hands on my belly, and whispered, “Your daddy’s a good man, sweetheart.”

She kicked in response. I smiled.

By the time he came back, I was practically glowing.

He walked in with a paper bag cradled in one arm, windblown and a little pink-cheeked from the chill. The moment our eyes met, I felt tears threaten to rise. He handed me the bag like it was treasure, and in that moment—it was.

“You found them?”

“Pickles,” he said, pulling out the jar. “Mini pretzels. Two kinds of mustard because I wasn’t sure which one you meant.”

“You’re an angel,” I murmured, unscrewing the jar lid with a soft pop. My mouth watered before I even took a bite.

He sat on the edge of the bed, watching me with amusement and something even gentler—something like awe.

I dipped a pretzel in the mustard, bit into a pickle, and let out a contented sigh. “Oh. My. God.”

He laughed quietly. “That good, huh?”

“I would marry you all over again just for this.”

He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Good to know.”

When I had eaten enough to quiet the storm in my belly, I set the food on the nightstand and curled into his side, my head on his shoulder, his arm around me. His hand slid to my belly and rested there, just in time for a tiny thump.

“She’s saying thank you too,” I whispered.

“You think it’s a girl?”

“I do.”

“I think she’s going to have your laugh,” he said softly. “God help me.”

We both smiled in the dark.

I ran my fingers through the soft fabric of his sweatshirt. “Thank you. Really.”

His response was quiet but certain. “Always.”

And as I lay there, full of strange snacks and safe in the arms of the man I loved, I realized this was the kind of moment no one ever told you about—sacred in its simplicity. No grand gestures. No fanfare. Just love that shows up without being asked.

Love that says, I’ll walk into the night for you. No matter what. Always.

Even if it’s for pickles and mustard.

Even if it’s tomorrow night, and the craving is peanut butter and sardines.

[mykindalovr]

Fiancée (Richard Winters x Fem reader)

Summary: You gush about being Richard's Fiancée every chance you get.

Warnings: None

No disrespect to the actual war veterans this is just based on the actor portrayal

I still wasn’t over it.

The ring. The proposal. The fact that Major Richard Winters, calmest man alive, stoic embodiment of leadership, had gone down on one knee, voice steady but hands slightly shaking, and asked me to marry him.

Of course I said yes. Loudly. Twice. And maybe I cried a little. Okay—a lot.

But now, three weeks into being engaged, I had a new favorite hobby: saying the word Fiancée every chance I got.

“I’ll take the cherry pie,” I told the waitress at the little diner in town, “but can you make it two? One for me, one for my Fiancée.”

She smiled politely and jotted it down, and I leaned forward with a grin so wide I thought my face might cramp.

Across the table, Richard raised an eyebrow over his coffee mug.

“That’s the fourth time you’ve said ‘Fiancée’ in the last ten minutes,” he said dryly.

“And I plan to beat my own record,” I replied, flashing him the ring. “You’re the one who made it official, Richard. You gave me this sparkly weapon and then expected me not to use it.”

He shook his head with a soft chuckle, the corners of his mouth twitching like he was trying not to smile too much. Classic Winters—emotion just barely contained. But I knew better. He was proud. I could see it in the way his eyes lingered on me, like he was still wondering how he got so lucky.

“You’re ridiculous,” he murmured.

“I’m engaged, Richard,” I said, wiggling my fingers at him. “There’s a difference.”

At the post office the next day, I accidentally-on-purpose dropped a letter while standing behind a young man in line. When he bent to pick it up, he caught sight of the ring and raised his eyebrows.

“Someone’s a lucky guy,” he said.

I beamed. “He is,” I replied sweetly. “That’s my Fiancée, Richard Winters.”

I didn’t even care if it sounded smug. I was radiating pure joy. And when I met up with Richard outside and told him about it?

He groaned. “Please tell me you didn’t say it like that.”

“I absolutely did.”

And he didn’t even try to hide his grin that time.

A week later, we attended a little get-together at Harry Welsh’s place. A few officers, some wives and sweethearts, a record player spinning in the corner. I walked in on Richard’s arm like I owned the place. Because I kind of did, emotionally. I was his fiancée.

“Oh wow,” one of the wives said, catching sight of my hand. “That’s a beautiful ring.”

I beamed. “Isn’t it? My Fiancée has good taste.”

I didn’t even glance at Richard—I could feel the side-eye coming off him like steam. But the amused squeeze of his hand around mine gave him away.

Later that evening, when we were outside getting some air, he leaned in close and whispered, “You keep saying Fiancée like you’re trying to hypnotize people.”

I laughed. “Can you blame me? It’s not just a word, Richard. It’s you. I get to marry you. I’m going to shout it from rooftops if you don’t stop me.”

He wrapped an arm around me then, pulling me close, his voice quieter.

“You really that happy?”

I looked up at him, heart full to the brim.

“I’ve never been happier in my life.”

He nodded once, his forehead brushing mine, and for a second he just held me there, like he didn’t want the moment to move.

“Then keep saying it,” he murmured. “Fiancée, ring, whatever you want. Just don’t forget that I’m the lucky one.”

I smiled against his chest. “You really don’t mind me showing off?”

“I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

I knew I was shameless about it — the ring flashing, the casual (and not-so-casual) mentions of the word Fiancée. I wore it like armor and perfume all at once: a badge of joy, pride, and maybe just a little smugness.

What I didn’t know was that Richard Winters — Major “All Duty, No Drama” Winters — had been doing the exact same thing.

Subtly, of course. Because he was Richard. But still.

I found out by accident.

It happened when I ran into Nixon one afternoon in town. He was leaning against the bar outside the tavern, a cigarette dangling from his fingers, looking entirely too amused.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the future Mrs. Winters,” he grinned. “Your fiancé won’t shut up about you.”

I blinked. “Wait, what?”

Nixon gave me a little head tilt. “You didn’t know?”

I shook my head slowly, lips parted.

He chuckled. “You think you’re the only one walking around saying Fiancée like it’s going out of style? Please. Winters is quietly obsessed. It’s honestly adorable. Talks about you at least once a day. Sometimes just drops ‘my fiancée’ into conversation like he’s letting the whole world know he’s off the market.”

I just stood there, stunned and glowing.

“I thought I was the ridiculous one,” I whispered.

“You are,” Nixon said dryly. “But so is he. He just hides it better.”

I kept my cool until I saw Richard that evening.

He was in the backyard, shirt sleeves rolled up, fixing the latch on the fence like it personally offended him.

“Hi, Fiancée,” I called out, casually strolling up.

He looked over his shoulder. “Hi.”

I tried not to smirk. “You fixing that fence for your fiancée?”

He paused. His eyes narrowed slightly. “Maybe.”

I leaned against the post. “So. Nixon told me something interesting.”

He went quiet.

I tilted my head. “Apparently, someone’s been slipping ‘my fiancée’ into conversations like you’re making a public service announcement.”

He didn’t say anything for a second, just adjusted the latch.

“Did he?” he asked lightly, though his ears were definitely turning a little pink.

I folded my arms and grinned. “You really do that?”

Finally, he straightened and turned to face me — expression neutral, but eyes sparkling just a little.

“I’m not as loud about it as you,” he said. “But yeah. I mention it.”

“Why?”

He shrugged, but then his voice dropped an octave, quiet and sincere. “Because I want people to know I belong to someone. That I’m… spoken for.”

My heart absolutely melted.

“Richard,” I said, stepping closer, “that’s the most romantic version of a PSA I’ve ever heard.”

He cracked a rare, soft smile. “You talk about me constantly. I figured it was only fair.”

I wrapped my arms around his waist and leaned into his chest, burying my grin against him.

“We’re ridiculous, aren’t we?”

“Completely,” he murmured, kissing the top of my head.

[mykindalovr]

Call me Mrs. Speirs (Ronald Speirs x Fem reader)

Summary: You and Ronald are newly weds and every chance you get, you call him husband or swoon when someone calls you Mrs. Speirs

Warnings: none

No disrespect to the actual war veterans; this is just based on the actor's portrayal.

The morning sun crept through the gauzy curtains of our small but cozy home just outside Aldbourne, bathing everything in soft gold. I blinked awake to find myself cocooned in the warmth of my husband’s arms—God, I’d never get tired of saying that word. Husband. Ronald Speirs, my husband. Mine.

“Good morning, Mrs. Speirs,” he murmured against my neck, voice still gravelly from sleep.

Cue internal fireworks. I melted instantly. “Say it again,” I whispered, grinning like an absolute fool.

“Mrs. Speirs,” he repeated, a little slower this time. I swear I heard the smile in his voice.

I turned to face him, eyes twinkling. “You’re really good at that, husband.”

He chuckled—a rare, genuine laugh that only I seemed to be privy to these days. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”

“Absolutely not.”

Ronald was cleaning his weapon on the porch — sleeves rolled up, jaw set, eyes focused. God help me, even the way he cleaned a rifle made me swoon.

I stood in the kitchen pretending to do the dishes, but really, I was just watching him through the window like some love-struck housewife from a wartime romance novel. Except I was the housewife. And Ronald was my husband.

God, my husband. I still wasn’t over it.

I walked outside with two mugs of coffee and set one next to him. “Here you go, husband,” I said sweetly, dragging the word out like honey on warm toast.

He looked up, one brow cocked. “That’s the fourth time today.”

“It’s 9:30 a.m. I’m pacing myself,” I replied, kissing his temple before sitting beside him. “It’s my favorite word.”

He smirked. “I noticed.”

Later that week, we strolled hand-in-hand through the village square. Ronald was in uniform, always drawing curious eyes from passersby, especially women. I knew what they were thinking. He had that quiet, dangerous charm about him. But I had a weapon they didn’t: a gold band on my left hand and a heart that beat only for my husband.

A woman at the bakery tilted her head when she saw us. “Are you Mrs. Speirs?”

Oh.

My.

God.

I nearly squealed. “Yes! That’s me! Mrs. Speirs!” I shot Ronald a wide-eyed grin like I'd just won the lottery.

He just raised a brow, amused and maybe a little in love with how ridiculous I was. I didn't care. I was floating.

That weekend, we went into town for supplies. The general store was busy, full of GIs and locals, all bustling and noisy. I stayed close to Ronald, who scanned the room with that instinctual sharpness that never seemed to turn off. But me? I was in civilian wife mode. Beaming. Glowing. Floating.

A young private tried chatting me up while Ronald was in the back looking at tools.

“Ma’am, are you from around here?”

I blinked. Then slowly, deliberately, raised my left hand like I was summoning divine light.

“Married,” I said, proudly, smiling like I’d just won a medal. “To a paratrooper.”

The private’s eyes widened, clearly unsure if I was threatening him or just... really enthusiastic. “Oh—uh—sorry, ma’am.”

“You’re fine,” I said breezily, still flashing the ring. “I just like reminding people. I’m Mrs. Speirs, actually.”

I didn’t even notice Ronald had returned until he brushed his hand across my back, smoothly stepping between me and the flustered private like a soldier taking position. His expression was unreadable, but I caught the twitch of his mouth.

“Everything alright?” he asked coolly.

“Perfect,” I said, grabbing his arm with both hands. “My husband is back.”

He gave the private a short nod. The poor guy nearly sprinted out of the store.

That night, back home, I curled up beside him, chin resting on his chest, fingers tracing the buttons of his undershirt.

“You okay?” I asked softly.

He looked at me for a moment—one of those long, quiet looks that said more than words ever could.

“I keep thinking I got lucky,” he said finally. “Every time you call me your husband, or correct someone, or flash that damn ring like it’s a weapon—I realize I didn’t just marry someone who loves me. I married someone who chose me, who’s proud to be mine.”

I felt my chest swell. I kissed the spot over his heart.

“You’re the best decision I ever made, Ronald Speirs. And I will remind the entire world every chance I get.”

He laughed, and there it was again—that rare, golden sound.

“You already do, Mrs. Speirs.”

God, I loved that man

[mykindalovr]

A week and a lifetime (Eugene Roe x Fem oc)

Summary: While on a week pass at home there's an unexpected surprise

Warnings: mentions of war

NO disrespect to the actual war veterans as this is just based on the actor portrayal.

I don’t know what made me wake up that morning and touch my stomach, like something in me already knew. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the way the sheets still smelled like him, even though he’d been gone nearly a month. Or maybe it was just the calendar, staring at me from the wall with quiet judgment and a red circle I hadn’t put there.

I counted again. And again. Then just sat down on the edge of the bed, trying to breathe.

Gene had only been home for a week. A single week. Seven days that moved too fast and too soft, like the kind of dream you don’t realize you’re dreaming until it’s gone. He didn’t talk much about the war, not really, but I saw it in the way he held me—tight, like he was afraid I’d disappear too.

We never talked about the future. There just wasn’t time. Every night, after the front porch light went out, we whispered to each other in the dark like the clock wasn’t ticking. Like time couldn’t take him back.

And now this.

I pressed my palm flat against my stomach again. There wasn’t anything to feel, not yet, but my body already knew. My chest ached. My hands trembled. The doctor confirmed it three days later.

“You’re strong,” she said, offering me a kind smile and a paper packet full of instructions. “You’ll be just fine.”

I wasn’t sure I believed her. Not yet. But I thanked her anyway.

Gene hadn’t written in about a week. Not unusual—mail was slow and war was cruel. I sat at the kitchen table for hours that night, staring at a blank page, trying to figure out how you tell a man halfway across the world that he’s going to be a father. Trying to keep my hand steady. Trying not to cry.

In the end, I just told the truth.

October 3, 1944 My dearest Eugene,

I hope this letter finds you safe. That you’re still whole, still sleeping at least a few hours a night, and that the cold hasn’t set in too badly yet. I keep looking at the weather reports in the paper, hoping that wherever you are is warmer than here.

I’ve been meaning to write you every day since you left, but every time I sit down, the words come out wrong. Too heavy. Too scared. I’ve been carrying something I wasn’t ready to put on paper.

But now I think I have to.

I’m late.

I went to the doctor yesterday. She said I’m about five, maybe six weeks along. She smiled when she said it. Said it like it was good news. And it is, Gene—it is. It’s just... sudden. And quiet. And mine, all mine for now, until you read this.

There’s a life growing inside me. Yours and mine. I don’t know if it’s a boy or a girl, or if they’ll have your dark hair or my stubborn jaw. I just know that the day you left, something stayed behind.

You were only home for seven days, Gene. Just seven. And somehow, that was enough for the rest of my life to change.

I don’t want you to worry. I’m alright. I’ll be alright. My mama’s already suspicious—she keeps watching me like she knows something’s changed. I’ll tell her soon. But I wanted you to be the first to know. You deserved that.

I know there’s no such thing as certainty right now. But if you come back to me—when you come back—there’ll be someone waiting for you. Someone who already has your heartbeat.

I love you. With everything I have.

Come home to us.

Yours always, Vera

I folded the letter slowly, sealing it with shaking hands and a kiss I knew he wouldn’t feel. Then I walked it down to the post office, blinking against the wind. It was cooler now. Leaves were starting to fall.

And somewhere out in the world, the man I loved was carrying a rifle. While I carried his child.

Eugene’s POV-

The mail came in soaked with rain again. Half of it looked like it’d been dropped in a ditch and fished back out, mud smudging the corners, names barely legible. I sorted through the pile handed to me by the clerk, hands half-numb from the cold. A folded newspaper. A postcard from my cousin in Baton Rouge. And then—

Her handwriting.

Even through the watermarks and stains, I’d know it anywhere. Slanted, neat, like she took her time with every letter. Like each word had weight.

I didn’t open it right away. I never did. I kept it in my breast pocket through chow, through another field exercise, through the restless pacing I did when I couldn’t stand still anymore. I don’t know why. Maybe because reading her words always felt like stepping into a different world. One I didn’t want to rush. One where the air was warm and the nights were quiet and nobody bled out in the snow.

That night, I finally opened it.

By the light of a single candle stub, in the corner of the old barn we were holed up in, I unfolded the page and started to read.

I had to go over the line three times before it landed.

“I’m late.”

My heart started beating so loud I could hear it in my ears.

“About five, maybe six weeks along…”

I stopped breathing. The war faded out. The cracked boards, the stink of wet socks, the gunmetal and mud—all of it just... slipped away.

“There’s a life growing inside me. Yours and mine.”

I didn’t realize I was smiling until the tears hit my face.

"Jesus," I whispered, pressing the letter to my chest.

I thought I’d be scared. And maybe I was — in that big, breathless way you get when everything you are suddenly belongs to something you’ve never met. But mostly... I just felt full. Like someone had poured light into my ribs.

“Roe,” a voice called from across the barn. Luz.

I blinked and wiped at my face quickly, trying to gather myself. “Yeah?”

“What’s that?” he asked, nodding to the paper. “Good news?”

I hesitated, then smiled like a fool. “Yeah. It’s... Vera’s pregnant.”

A beat of silence. Then:

“No shit?” Luz’s eyes lit up like Christmas. “Hey! Roe’s gonna be a dad!”

He didn’t say it quiet, either.

Within seconds, the whole barn erupted.

“Get the hell outta here!” “You serious?” “Goddamn, Roe, you sly bastard!” “Boy’s been busy on his leave, huh?”

Laughter, hoots, claps on the back. Even the guys who barely talked gave me a smile. Perconte tried to give me his last stick of gum like it was a cigar. Lipton came over and gave me a quiet, genuine handshake, his eyes soft.

“That’s a blessing, Roe,” he said, and he meant it. “Something to come home to. Something good to fight for.”

I nodded, throat too tight to speak.

I thought of Vera in that little kitchen, probably sitting at the table when she wrote the letter. Hand on her stomach. Waiting for me to know.

I pulled out a fresh sheet of paper from my pack, the edges wrinkled but clean, and started writing by candlelight while the guys around me settled back into their cots and card games.

October 16, 1944 My dearest Vera,

You took my breath away.

I read your letter and couldn’t speak for ten whole minutes. Luz thought I got bad news. But no—no, darling—you gave me the best news of my life.

You’re carrying my child.

Our child.

I can’t even picture it yet, but I feel it. Like something inside me just shifted. Like I’ve got a reason now that’s more than duty, more than survival. I’m fighting for more than the men beside me now. I’m fighting to come home to you. To them.

I wish I could be there. God, I wish I could put my hand on your belly and feel the life we made. But for now, your words will have to hold me.

I love you, Vera. More than I’ve ever said out loud. I’ll say it proper when I get home.

Keep safe. Keep strong.

Tell our baby I love them already.

Yours always, Gene

I folded the letter and tucked it into the outgoing pouch with a kind of reverence. Then I lay down, hands behind my head, staring up at the rafters like I could see stars through the cracks.

Somewhere out there, in a small Louisiana house, a heartbeat was growing.

And I’d come home to it. I swore it.

8 months later….

Eugene's POV-

Mail came late.

We’d just finished another long patrol through frozen woods that didn’t feel like woods anymore—just broken trees and shattered silence. My knees ached. I’d gone numb somewhere below the waist hours ago. Everything smelled like smoke and wet wool.

I didn’t expect anything when I got back to the barn. Maybe a cigarette. Maybe my own boots dry for once. But then Tab handed me a bundle of mail, and right on top—Vera’s handwriting.

And a small envelope behind it. Thicker than usual.

My hands trembled before I even opened it.

I sat on the ground, back against a haystack, and opened the letter with careful fingers like the words might be fragile. Like they’d fall apart if I rushed. I always read her slow. She deserved that.

She’s here. Claire Marie Roe.

I read those words three times before the meaning hit me.

She’s here. Claire is here.

A noise caught in my throat. Not a sob. Not a laugh. Just something halfway between being broken and being whole again.

I unfolded the small photo.

It was blurry at the edges, just black and white, the lighting all wrong. But there she was. Wrapped in a blanket, eyes shut tight, mouth slightly open like she’d just finished her first sentence in a dream. I pressed my thumb to the edge of the photo, careful not to touch her face.

“Roe?” Luz crouched nearby, picking at a tin of rations. “You good, man?”

I didn’t answer right away. I just handed him the picture.

He squinted. “Is this—?”

“My daughter,” I said. “Claire. She was born on the eighteenth.”

Luz let out a long breath, smiling wide. “Damn, Roe. She’s beautiful. Got your ears, though. Poor kid.”

I chuckled softly. The others caught wind of it and came over one by one—Winters, Lipton, Malarkey, Toye. They passed the photo around with reverence like it was a miracle, and maybe it was.

“She looks like Vera?” Lipton asked.

“She looks like peace,” I said before I could stop myself.

They all nodded.

Winters clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Congratulations, Eugene. That’s hope, right there. That’s something waiting for you when this is over.”

“I don’t deserve her,” I murmured, mostly to myself.

“None of us do,” Malarkey said quietly. “But we fight anyway. So maybe one day we will.”

I sat with the letter again that night, folded it carefully, then tucked the photo into my breast pocket—close to my heart, where she belonged. I kept one hand there even after the candles went out. Just to feel her near.

The world was still cold. The war was still raging. But now there was a girl with my eyes and Vera’s name, breathing somewhere safe. And I’d get home to her. If it took everything I had left, I’d get home.

For Vera. For Claire. For the name we gave her together in the dark, and the light she brought into mine.

Eugene's POV-

Louisiana, Late 1945

The train home didn’t move fast enough.

Every screech of metal, every minute we paused on the track to switch engines or take on passengers, I thought I might climb out and run the rest of the way. Just get off and walk, boots and all, through dirt roads and the thick Louisiana heat until I found my way to our front porch.

Until I found my way to her.

To them.

Vera wrote that Claire had my eyes and her temper. That she liked to stare at ceiling fans and hated being swaddled. That she giggled in her sleep sometimes, like she was dreaming about something sweet. Like she already knew laughter before words.

I’d read those letters over and over in the foxholes. Traced her name — Claire Marie Roe — with my thumb in the dark. Whispered it during artillery barrages like it was a prayer. She wasn’t even born when I left, and somehow she’d become the reason I kept going.

The train groaned and hissed as we pulled into the station, and I stood before we came to a full stop. I didn’t care. I gripped my duffel bag so hard my knuckles went white, but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

My boots hit the platform before the whistle stopped.

And there she was — Vera.

Her dress was pale blue, hair pulled back, thinner than I remembered but glowing all the same. In her arms, wrapped in a soft cream blanket, was my daughter. My daughter.

I froze.

It hit me like a punch to the chest. Not fear — just awe. Like my body didn’t quite believe I was allowed to see this moment, like I’d spent so long holding death that life didn’t know what to do with me.

Then Vera smiled — that soft, tired smile I’d seen a hundred times in dreams — and my feet moved.

I reached them in seconds. Dropped the bag. Reached for her.

“Can I—?” I asked, voice cracking.

“You better,” Vera whispered.

And then she was in my arms. Claire. Warm, heavier than I imagined, soft as light. Her tiny face scrunched at first, but when I pulled her close, she quieted. Settled. Like she knew me.

She fit.

My whole world fit into my arms and didn’t fall apart.

“She’s got your nose,” I whispered.

“And your eyes,” Vera said, wiping at a tear she didn’t bother to hide.

I looked down at Claire, who blinked slowly like she was still deciding whether or not she liked the world.

“I couldn’t wait to meet you,” I said, barely able to breathe.

And I meant it. Through gunfire and frozen nights, through blood and silence, I had carried her name in my chest like a heartbeat. And now she was here.

Mine. Ours. Real.

I kissed the top of her head.

And for the first time in a long time, I wasn’t waiting for anything anymore.

I was home.

[mykindalovr]

The photograph in his pocket (Ronald Speirs x Fem reader)

Summary: Ronald keeps a photograph of you in his pocket, that he looks at every day to remind him what he is fighting for. One day he loses it and stumbles across some of his men looking at it.

Warnings: Mentions of war

No disrespect to the actual war veterans this is just based on the actor portrayal.

Him mad that other men are looking at your photo^^^

When Ron left for the war, I didn’t cry—not until the train disappeared around the bend. He had stood there on the platform in his uniform, clean-shaven and unreadable, like always. But when he kissed me, just before boarding, I felt it. That unspoken fear he didn’t dare say aloud.

I tucked a photograph of us in the inside pocket of his coat just before he climbed aboard. A quiet gift. One of the only photos we had together—me in a sundress, sitting on the porch rail, squinting against the sunlight. He was standing behind me with one hand resting casually on my shoulder, not even looking at the camera—he was looking at me. Like he always did when he didn’t think I noticed.

He kept it with him after that day. I know because he wrote about it in his letters.

I keep that photo in my pocket, the one from the porch. Every time I reach for a cigarette or my lighter, my fingers brush it. I don’t need to pull it out every time. Just knowing it’s there helps. But most days... I do. Just for a second.

I imagined him hunched in a foxhole or crouched behind cover, the sound of gunfire just over the hill, his calloused fingers unfolding the worn photo to remind himself what he was fighting for.

Somewhere in the fields of Europe, weeks later...

The photograph had grown soft at the edges, creased at the corner where his thumb always brushed it. He didn’t share it with anyone. Not because he was ashamed—Ron never would be—but because it was his. A private moment he carried next to his heart.

Until one day, it was gone.

He reached into his inner pocket during a lull between patrols, fingers moving with the familiar rhythm—and paused.

Nothing.

He checked again. Again. Then emptied the entire pocket, frowning hard, his breath catching in his chest.

His photo—your photo—was missing.

He stood up so quickly it startled one of the men sitting nearby. “Winters,” he muttered sharply, “I’m going to check something.”

Ron moved through the trees like a man possessed. He retraced his steps, checked the barracks tent, even rifled through his gear twice. Mud clung to his boots and his fingers were trembling, though he’d never admit it.

Then he heard it—a low chuckle coming from the makeshift mess tent.

And there they were. Three of his men crouched around something, passing it between them like it was some sacred relic. One of them whistled low, shaking his head with a smile.

“Who is that?” another asked.

“That your sister, Speirs?” a private joked, just as Ron stepped into the clearing.

His voice cut clean through the moment.

“No,” he said flatly. “That’s my wife.”

All three froze.

The private holding the photo went stiff, caught red-handed with the slightly crumpled image between his fingers. He offered it back like a kid caught sneaking candy.

“Sir—I didn’t mean—”

Ron didn’t yell. He didn’t need to.

He took the photo back carefully, like it might shatter. He brushed a thumb along the crease, straightened the fold, and tucked it back into his coat where it belonged. Then he looked at them, his voice calm but sharp as steel.

“She gave that to me the day I left. I keep it with me every day. You think she’s beautiful? I do too. That’s why I married her.”

The men shifted awkwardly, a little embarrassed, but there was something else in their eyes too. Respect. Not just for him—but for you.

After a long moment, one of the men cleared his throat. “She looks like the kind of woman who’d keep a man fighting.”

Ron nodded once. “She is.”

Later that night...

The photo rested in his hands again, now slightly worse for wear, but somehow more precious than ever. He sat alone under the stars, helmet at his feet, a cigarette burning low between his fingers.

He studied your face in the photo like he always did—tracing the curve of your smile, the way your hair had fallen over your shoulder. He knew every line by heart.

“You’ve been passed around more than a bottle of scotch today,” he muttered, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth.

Then, quieter: “They’re right, you know. You are beautiful.”

He folded the photo again, carefully, and placed it back into his pocket.

But this time, before buttoning the flap closed, he rested his hand there for a moment longer—like he was holding your hand from across the world.

And when the war pressed closer again—when the chaos returned—he knew he’d be ready. Because no matter how many miles stretched between you, no matter how much the world fell apart...

He still carried you next to his heart.

It was spring when I heard the knock.

The war had ended weeks before, but the world still felt muted, like it hadn’t figured out how to exhale yet. Every day the train station buzzed with returning soldiers, and every day I waited—wondering if today would be our day.

I’d just finished hanging laundry when I heard it. Three short knocks. Familiar. Crisp.

I opened the door before I had time to brace myself.

And there he was.

Ron.

He stood tall in the doorway, uniform dusted from the road, his duffel slung over one shoulder. He looked thinner, older around the eyes—but still him. Still mine.

I didn’t scream. Didn’t cry. I just launched forward, burying my face in his chest, arms clinging to him like he might vanish again if I blinked. He held me without words for a long time, forehead pressed into my hair.

“You came back,” I whispered, voice cracking.

“I promised I would.”

He stepped inside, and for a while, neither of us could stop looking at the other. I touched his face just to make sure it was real.

He pulled something from his coat pocket then—slowly, carefully, like it was precious cargo. A worn square of paper, edges soft, corners bent, the center creased where it had been folded and unfolded a hundred times.

The photograph.

My breath caught.

“You kept it.”

“Every day,” he said. “It got me through the worst of it.”

He handed it to me with reverence, and I saw just how worn it had become—smudged from dirt and fingertips, but still intact. Still us. I ran a finger over it and shook my head.

“You know I have more photos,” I teased gently, smiling through my tears.

He shook his head. “I didn’t need more. I needed this one.”

I clutched the photo to my chest and looked at him. “Was it true? What you wrote... that you pulled it out every day?”

He nodded once. “Sometimes more than once. The men gave me hell about it.”

I laughed softly. “You, Ronald Speirs, sentimental?”

He leaned closer, his voice dropping low, the way it used to when we lay under the covers talking about impossible futures. “Only for you.”

He kissed me then—slow, grounding, with the kind of weight that said I’m here. I made it. When we pulled apart, he rested his hand over the photograph still clutched in mine.

“Every bullet I dodged, every step I took—I took for the woman in that picture.”

“I waited for you every day,” I said.

He looked at me, quiet for a beat. “I know.”

That night…

We lay together in our bed for the first time in years, limbs tangled, the soft creak of the house around us like a lullaby. The photograph rested on the nightstand beside us, placed carefully under a glass of water like it might flutter away.

He traced circles on my arm with his thumb, staring at the ceiling like he was still adjusting to the stillness.

“I used to pull that photo out after a firefight,” he said softly. “The men thought it was because I missed you.”

“You didn’t?”

“I did. But it was more than that.” He turned to look at me. “I needed to remember why I was coming back. Why I had to.”

I rolled onto my side, brushing my hand across his chest. “You don’t need the photo now. I’m right here.”

“I’ll keep it anyway,” he said, voice rough. “It belongs with me. Always.”

[mykindalovr]

The Veil and the Vow (Richard Winters x Fem reader)

Summary: Your wedding to Richard Winters has to be perfect....but sometimes the universe has different plans for you

No disrespect to the actual war veterans this is just based on the actor portrayal.

Warnings: none just fluff

I woke up that morning with a stomach full of butterflies and a heart pounding so loud I was surprised no one else could hear it. The Pennsylvania air was cool through the open windows, crisp with early autumn, and tinged with the faint scent of leaves turning. It should have calmed me, but instead, I just kept staring at the clock.

Every tick was a step closer to something I’d dreamt about for so long: marrying Richard Winters.

It didn’t feel real. Not yet. Not even as my maid of honor handed me my dress, not even as the makeup artist powdered my trembling hands. Every detail had to be just right. I had spent weeks—months—planning this. I had color-coded spreadsheets, a day-of schedule with military-level precision (which felt appropriate, considering who I was marrying), and backup plans for my backup plans.

“Stop fidgeting,” one of my bridesmaids chided gently as she helped with the buttons on my gown.

“I just want everything to be perfect,” I mumbled, blinking rapidly at the mirror. “What if the flowers wilt? What if the string quartet forgets how to play Clair de Lune? What if—”

“What if you take a deep breath?” she smiled. “You’re marrying Dick Winters. He’s probably downstairs right now, planning how to rescue you from a hypothetical bouquet crisis.”

That made me laugh—a little. But I still clutched my bouquet like it was a lifeline. The room was buzzing with chatter, with movement. The photographer clicked and called for poses. My heart thudded faster.

Then came the veil.

It was delicate, cathedral-length, edged in hand-stitched lace my grandmother had given me. It was the one item I hadn’t trusted to anyone else. I held it myself, smoothing it over my arm like silk fog.

“I’ve got it,” the stylist said, trying to help pin it into place.

I turned—and it snagged.

A sickening rrrip echoed louder than any shout, and I froze. The edge of the veil tore right along the lace. A jagged line, irreparable.

I stopped breathing.

“No, no, no—no no no,” I gasped, holding it up like a wounded animal. “It’s ruined. I can’t—this was supposed to—”

I felt myself spiraling. My cheeks burned. Hot tears welled up before I could stop them, and my chest tightened in panic. All the meticulous planning, all the months of stress and dreams—it all crashed in with that single tear.

Someone ran to get a sewing kit. Another tried to reassure me it could be hidden. Nothing helped.

Until I heard his voice.

“Excuse me, ladies,” Richard said, stepping quietly into the room—his brow furrowed, his eyes soft the moment they met mine.

He wasn’t supposed to see me. Not yet. But all I could do was reach for him.

Everyone else faded. He crossed the room in just a few strides and gently took the ruined veil from my trembling hands, setting it aside without looking at it. His hands were warm on my shoulders.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

I did, reluctantly, my mascara dangerously close to betrayal.

“It’s just a veil. You’re still you,” he said. “You’re still beautiful. We’re still going to get married today. That’s the only part I care about.”

“But it was the veil—”

“I’d marry you in a thunderstorm wearing a paper bag if I had to.” He smiled just enough to soften the tension in my jaw. “And you’d still be the most breathtaking thing I’ve ever seen.”

I let out a shaky laugh, choking back a sob. “That’s a terrible visual.”

“Then let’s get married before anyone brings out a paper bag.”

He took my hand and pressed it to his chest, steady and strong. I could feel his heartbeat. Calm. Anchoring. The opposite of everything swirling inside me.

“I don’t care about the veil,” he said. “I care about you. And this life we’re going to build.”

In that moment, nothing else mattered. The ripped lace, the perfectly timed music, the table settings—it all melted into the background like it never really meant anything at all.

Only he did.

So we found a backup veil—shorter, simpler. And when I walked down the aisle, Richard’s eyes found mine and never wavered.

And suddenly, I wasn’t nervous anymore.

The chapel doors opened with a gentle creak, and the music swelled around me like a wave. Not the exact song I had planned—turns out the quartet had misplaced my sheet music—but in that moment, I didn’t care. The melody was warm and slow, something delicate and beautiful. Fitting, somehow, for how my heart felt.

Everyone stood.

I could feel every eye on me, but all I saw was him.

Richard stood at the end of the aisle, shoulders square, his uniform crisp, his expression unreadable to anyone who didn’t know him—but I did know him. I saw the way his jaw unclenched slightly as I stepped forward. The tiniest lift at the corners of his mouth. The way his eyes, normally so composed, shimmered just enough to make my chest ache.

I walked slowly, the train of the backup veil trailing behind me—shorter, lighter, and a little uneven. It fluttered as I moved, and I swear, in that moment, it almost felt better this way. Like something less expected. Less controlled. More us.

Each step closer to him, my nerves melted. The world quieted until it was just the soft sound of my shoes, the music, and the way he looked at me like I was something sacred.

When I reached him, he took my hands gently in his. I saw the way his thumb brushed the inside of my wrist, soothing the pulse that still raced there.

“You came,” he whispered, teasing lightly.

“Barely,” I breathed back, grinning. “Your bride nearly had a veil-induced breakdown.”

“Almost sent out a rescue team.”

“You were the rescue team.”

We faced the officiant then, and everything began.

The ceremony passed like a dream. There were words—so many words. Vows spoken softly, promises made under the soft golden light filtering through the stained glass. But what I remember most was Richard’s eyes.

When he spoke his vows, there was no wavering. No stumbling. Just that same steady cadence he used with his men—but softer. For me.

“I promise to lead with kindness,” he said, voice quiet but resolute. “To protect your heart as fiercely as I would my own. To listen, to laugh with you, to carry the weight when you’re too tired. To be your home.”

I tried to breathe. I failed. My lips trembled as I whispered mine back, barely able to get the words out without breaking.

“I promise to love you, even when things fall apart… even when veils rip and plans go wrong. You are the plan. You are every plan.”

We said I do, and the world seemed to exhale around us. As we kissed—gentle and sure—applause erupted, and I realized I hadn’t thought about the veil once since I’d seen his face.

Later, at the reception…

The hall was strung with lights that looked like stars, and laughter filled the room like music. The food was late, the cake had a dent in the frosting, and one of the groomsmen gave a toast that veered off into a WWII anecdote involving a chicken coop. And yet, I’d never felt more at peace.

We danced slowly, Richard’s hand firm on my waist, mine resting against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing.

“You did it,” I murmured against his collar. “You married a neurotic bride who cried over torn lace.”

He leaned back just enough to look at me. “You’re the bravest person I know.”

“You’ve led men into battle.”

“And you planned a wedding. Honestly? I think you win.”

I laughed, resting my head against him. Around us, people danced, clinked glasses, snapped photos. But I only cared about the man who had pulled me back from the edge, who had shown up not just for the wedding—but for the marriage.

Near the end of the night, he took my hand again and walked us quietly outside, away from the noise. The stars were out in full force, crisp and clear.

“I don’t need perfect,” he said, his fingers brushing mine. “I just need you.”

I closed my eyes, breathed in the night air, and smiled.

“I’m yours,” I said.

And in that quiet moment—veil forgotten, mascara smudged, bouquet abandoned—I knew with absolute certainty that this was exactly how it was meant to be.

[mykindalovr]

A quiet kind of love (Eugene Roe x Fem nurse oc)

Summary: Eugene Roe has a crush

Warnings: Injury and mentions of injury

ofc no disrespect to the actual war heroes this is just based on the actor portrayal.

The war tore through Europe like a wildfire, burning homes, lives, and innocence in its path. Among the shattered towns and the ghostly trees of the Ardennes forest, men fought, bled, and died. But amid the ruin, some things still bloomed.

For Eugene Roe, medic of Easy Company, solace rarely came. The groans of the dying, the bark of gunfire, the cold indifference of winter — all of it weighed heavy on him. But in a crumbling church turned makeshift hospital, he found an unexpected source of warmth: Claire Fournier.

She was a local Belgian woman — mid-twenties, sharp eyes, steady hands. She volunteered to help with the wounded when the front moved through Bastogne. Not a nurse by training, but her composure and compassion filled the gaps. Roe noticed her immediately, though he tried not to. But he kept finding excuses to return to the aid station. To "check on a patient" who had already stabilized. To "restock supplies" he didn’t need. To bring another injured man, even if someone else could’ve carried the stretcher.

Claire started to catch on.

"Doc Roe," she said one afternoon, wiping her hands on her apron. "You come here more often than the priest used to."

Roe gave a quiet smile and held out a small, snow-dusted wildflower — a rare find in the frostbitten woods. "Thought you might like this," he said, voice low, shy.

She took it gently, as if it were fragile. "Merci," she said softly. "It’s beautiful."

He never stayed long — just enough to see her eyes light up, to hear her laugh — before vanishing back to the lines. War didn’t permit much more. But he thought of her often, the memory of her a shield against the ugliness around him.

Then came the day the rumors started.

"One of the volunteers at the church got caught in a shell blast!" someone shouted near the foxholes. "They say it was bad — dark hair, short — think it was that Belgian girl."

Eugene’s stomach dropped. Without waiting for orders, he bolted.

Snow crunched under his boots as he raced toward the town, weaving between the half-frozen corpses of trees and the broken bones of buildings. Breath sharp in his throat, blood pounding in his ears.

He burst through the church doors, wild-eyed, scanning—

There she was. Sitting upright on a cot, her cheek bruised and a shallow cut on her arm, but very much alive.

"Eugene?" she said, startled at his sudden appearance.

He crossed the room in three strides and knelt beside her, scanning her like a patient. "They said you were hurt bad."

Claire looked at him with soft astonishment, then smiled gently. "It was a wall. A piece of it fell when a shell landed nearby. I’m fine. Just startled."

He exhaled slowly, his relief almost knocking the wind from his chest. Then he looked away, embarrassed at how fast he'd come running, how visible his panic must have been.

"You... you didn’t have to come," she added, more carefully.

Roe didn’t answer right away. Then, quietly, he said, "I thought something had happened to you. I couldn’t... I just needed to make sure you were okay."

Claire studied him, her expression shifting from curiosity to something softer. "You care about me."

He looked up at her, caught, unable to hide anymore. His hands fidgeted with the frayed strap on his bag.

"I do," he said. "I know this isn’t the time or place, and I’m just a medic, and we’re all just trying to survive, but... I think about you. All the time."

Claire reached forward, took his hand, and for once his fingers didn’t tremble under the touch of another. "I care about you too, Eugene."

He met her eyes, hope flickering like a match struck in the dark.

"After this," she said, "when the world is quieter... we’ll find each other again. But until then—" she paused, leaning in to kiss his cheek, right where the stubble met skin, "—you come back in one piece, mon chéri."

And for the first time in a long while, Eugene Roe smiled without sorrow.

The war ended with more silence than anyone expected. No trumpets, no parades in the fields — just a strange, aching stillness, like a storm had passed and left behind only the sound of your own breath.

Eugene Roe returned home to Louisiana, a town of humid summers and Spanish moss, and tried to remember how to be still. The war had hollowed him in places he didn’t yet understand. Some days, he woke in cold sweats. Other days, he walked for hours just to feel the earth under his feet and not the crunch of snow or shrapnel.

But through it all, there was a letter.

She had written it on a torn scrap of cloth just before he left Bastogne, tucked it into his pocket when she thought he was asleep — her address in Belgium and just a few words:

“When the fighting is over, come find me. I’ll be waiting. — Claire.”

It took months to gather the strength. Not out of fear — he had faced fear. But because he didn’t want to find ruins where she had once been.

Still, in the spring of 1946, Eugene packed a small bag and took a ship back to Europe. It was easier than he expected — no longer a soldier, but a man on a mission of the heart.

Claire’s town had been partially rebuilt. New roofs sat atop old stone. The church still bore scars, but someone had planted flowers in the window boxes.

He asked a shopkeeper in broken French if she still lived nearby. The man smiled, pointed him toward the edge of town, to a small cottage with ivy creeping up the side.

Eugene’s heart pounded the entire walk.

When he knocked on the door, he almost turned to leave. But then it opened.

And there she was.

Hair a little longer, a bit sun-kissed, her eyes just as fierce and kind. She wore a simple linen dress, smudged with flour — she'd been baking.

Claire froze. Her lips parted in shock, and for a second, neither of them moved.

Then:

"You came," she whispered.

Eugene nodded, almost bashful. "Told you I would."

Claire stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him before he could say anything more. It wasn’t dramatic or desperate — just sure. Solid. Like the world had finally clicked into place.

"I didn’t know if you’d remember me," she murmured against his chest.

"Every day," he said, quietly. "You were the only good thing I found in that war."

She pulled back just enough to look him in the eyes. "I set a place at my table every night. Just in case."

He laughed, more than he had in months, and kissed her — their first real kiss, warm and slow and without urgency.

That night, they sat by the fire with bread and soup and silence that was finally comfortable. She placed the old flower he’d once given her — now pressed and dried in a frame — on the table between them.

He reached across and held her hand, tracing the lines of her palm with a medic’s care, and with a lover’s awe.

"You think we can build something?" he asked.

Claire smiled, eyes full of quiet hope. "We already are."

[mykindalovr]

Two quiet hearts: Alternative ending (Richard Winters x Fem nurse oc/Ronald Speirs x Fem nurse oc)

Summary: Alternative endings where she picks one over the other

Warnings: none

And ofc no disrespect to the actual war veteran this is just based on the actor portrayal

The train slowed with a gentle lurch as it pulled into the quiet station. The countryside rolled past the windows in shades of green and gold, so different from the grey ash of Europe. Margaret stepped onto the platform with her small suitcase in hand, heart hammering against her ribs.

She hadn’t written ahead. She wasn’t even sure what she would say when she saw him—if he was there, if he still wanted to be found.

But something had shifted in her during the long, healing months after the war. She had left the hospital in Reims with a limp, a scar across her ribs, and a heart more certain than ever.

She had cared for Speirs, yes. Respected him, admired him even. But Winters… Winters had stayed with her in the quiet moments of recovery. In her dreams. In the letters she never sent.

He had loved her with restraint, with dignity. Not to claim her, but to honor what he felt. And that had stayed with her—more than passion, more than survival. It was the kind of love she could build a life on.

She asked a shopkeeper in town if he knew where Richard Winters lived.

“Down the road a ways,” the man said, tipping his hat. “Small farm, just past the bend.”

She walked.

The air smelled like earth and fresh grass. The quiet was different here—peaceful instead of ominous. With every step, her heart beat louder. When the house came into view, small and white with blue shutters, she stopped for a moment at the gate.

He was in the yard, wearing a plain shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow. He was splitting wood—clean, deliberate movements, just like she remembered. He hadn’t seen her yet.

She stepped forward.

“Richard.”

He turned at the sound of her voice—and froze.

For a moment, neither moved. The birds kept singing. The breeze stirred the trees.

And then, slowly, he set the axe down and walked toward her.

“You came,” he said, as if it were the last thing he expected and the only thing he’d hoped for.

“I wasn’t sure if I should,” she replied. “But I knew I needed to.”

His eyes searched hers.

“I didn’t want to ask you to come,” he said softly. “Didn’t want you to feel like you owed me anything.”

“You didn’t ask,” she said. “But I came anyway.”

He reached out and gently took her suitcase, their fingers brushing.

“I didn’t know where I belonged after the war,” she continued, her voice trembling. “Everything felt broken. But then I thought of you. Of what you said. And I realized I had known for a long time.”

He looked at her, the weight of all they’d survived written in his expression.

“Do you still feel it?” she asked. “What you told me in the hospital?”

“I never stopped,” he said. “Not for a moment.”

Her breath caught, tears threatening.

“I don’t know what comes next,” she whispered. “But I want to find out. With you.”

He stepped closer. Not a soldier now—just a man.

“Then you’re home,” he said.

He took her into his arms, gently, as if afraid she might vanish. She didn’t.

They stood there for a long time, two souls shaped by war and now choosing peace—not the absence of conflict, but the quiet courage of beginning again.

And in the golden light of a Pennsylvania spring, Margaret knew she had chosen rightly.

I had to add their wedding:)

The chapel wasn’t grand—just a small white church tucked between hills and golden trees near the edge of town—but it was filled to the brim. Every pew was taken, and every face belonged to someone who had once worn olive drab and carried a rifle across foreign soil.

The men of Easy Company had come.

Some arrived on crutches, others with a permanent limp or a faraway look that never quite faded. But they were there—Winters’ men—each of them weathered, proud, and a little awed to see their commanding officer standing at the front of the chapel in a simple black suit, nervously adjusting his cuffs.

The organ played something gentle. A hush fell.

And then Margaret stepped into view.

She wore no veil, just a simple ivory dress that moved like water as she walked, one hand lightly gripping the bouquet, the other resting on the arm of an older nurse she had served with during the war. Her auburn hair was swept up, a few loose strands brushing her cheek. Her smile—nervous, luminous—found Richard’s and stayed there.

He had seen her in blood and fire, in exhaustion and grief.

But never like this.

As she reached him, they didn’t speak—just exchanged a look so full it said more than vows ever could.

The ceremony was short. Sincere. When the officiant finally said, “You may kiss the bride,” the room erupted in cheers, whistles, and a few playful jabs from the back pews.

Luz was the first to shout, “About time, sir!”

The reception was held on Winters’ land beneath a canopy of trees turning amber and red. Tables were laid out with home-cooked food, and a makeshift dance floor had been strung with fairy lights. A gramophone played swing tunes, and despite the scars they carried, the men laughed, drank, and even danced.

Winters found himself leaning against a tree with a glass of cider, watching Margaret speak animatedly with Lipton and Perconte, her laughter ringing out like a song.

“She looks happy.”

He turned. Speirs stood beside him, drink in hand, a quiet ease in his stance that had been absent for years.

“She is,” Winters said. “I am too.”

Speirs nodded. “You earned it.”

“So did you.”

There was a silence between them—comfortable this time, no longer heavy with what wasn’t said.

“She’s here, by the way,” Speirs added.

Winters raised an eyebrow.

“Her name’s Anna,” Speirs said, a flicker of softness in his eyes. “She was a war correspondent in Italy. Wrote stories that made you feel again.”

Winters smiled. “Fitting.”

“I think so.”

Just then, Margaret approached, her arm slipping easily around Richard’s.

“Captain Speirs,” she said warmly.

“Mrs. Winters,” he replied with a wry smile. “You look radiant.”

“Thank you,” she said, eyes shining.

“And happy,” he added. “Truly.”

She looked up at Richard. “I am.”

Speirs nodded once, then tipped his glass to them both. “To peace, then. However we find it.”

“To peace,” Winters said.

“To peace,” Margaret echoed.

As night fell and the stars appeared one by one, the men of Easy Company raised their glasses, danced with their sweethearts, and remembered the ones who couldn’t be there. Speirs eventually took Anna’s hand and, to everyone’s astonishment, danced with quiet grace.

And in that moment, beneath the soft music and warm lights, it wasn’t war stories or medals or memories that held them together.

It was the rare, hard-earned gift of surviving—and choosing, still, to love.

Now with Ronald:)

The war had left behind many things—scars, medals, silence. But for Margaret, it had also left a question she had tried to outrun for nearly a year.

She had returned to Britain for a time, working in hospitals, trying to rebuild. But Richard’s letter had come in the autumn—kind, thoughtful, full of warmth. It should have stirred something more.

She’d read it once, then tucked it into a drawer she hadn’t opened since.

What stirred her now, what returned again and again in her quietest hours, wasn’t the safe steadiness of Winters. It was the look in Ronald Speirs’ eyes the day he had stood at her bedside, his voice calm and clear as he said, “You reminded me I’m still a man.”

He hadn’t asked anything of her. Neither of them had. That was what made the truth shine sharper now.

She loved him.

It wasn’t the kind of love you were supposed to want after war—it was darker, harder to define. But it was honest. It was deep. And it was real.

It had taken months of quiet soul-searching to admit it.

And now, standing in front of the low-slung train station in Zürich, watching the mountain air swirl past tidy streets, she hoped she hadn’t waited too long.

The last she’d heard, he had joined the constabulary in occupied Austria—then taken leave and disappeared. One letter from Lipton had mentioned Switzerland. “He said he needed quiet. Said he was going to learn to be a civilian again.”

She found his name in a local registry: Ronald Speirs – c/o St. Moritz Post Office. No address. Just a forwarding location.

She sent a note.

A week later, he met her at the café just outside the station, dressed plainly in a dark coat, his hair longer, lines a little deeper around his mouth.

But his eyes—those same steady, unreadable eyes—held on her the moment she approached.

He stood.

“You came.”

“I had to,” she said. “I couldn’t leave the truth sitting in a drawer forever.”

He said nothing, but a glimmer flickered in his expression—barely visible, but there.

She sat opposite him. For a few moments, neither spoke.

Then she said, simply, “I’ve thought about you every day since the war ended.”

His jaw shifted slightly, but he still didn’t interrupt.

“I tried to move on,” she continued. “Tried to talk myself into safety, into quiet. And I realized it wasn’t what I needed. It wasn’t who I needed.”

He blinked, slowly. “And who is that?”

“You,” she said. “I love you, Ronald. Not because it’s easy. Because it’s true.”

The words hovered between them like fragile glass. He looked down, fingers tracing the rim of his coffee cup.

“I didn’t expect this,” he said at last. “Didn’t think it was even a possibility.”

She gave a soft smile. “Neither did I. But here we are.”

He leaned back, eyes never leaving hers. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been more sure.”

The silence that followed wasn’t tense—it was reverent. Two people who had seen too much, lost too much, and now stood quietly on the edge of something new.

He reached across the table and took her hand.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted.

“Then we’ll learn,” she said.

And in the alpine spring, with snow still clinging to the distant peaks and sunlight dancing across the cobblestones, Ronald Speirs let the war go—just a little—and let her in.

They were married beneath a quiet grove of pines just outside Salzburg. No parade, no grand speeches. Just a few of the old Company men who had stayed in touch—Lipton, Nixon, Malarkey—and a handful of locals who had watched Speirs transform from soldier to something softer.

Margaret wore a blue dress. Ronald wore his best civilian suit, ill-fitting but clean. When they said their vows, it wasn’t with trembling voices or elaborate promises. Just quiet certainty.

Afterward, they shared a small meal on the grass with their guests.

Winters came.

He arrived late, as the sun was beginning to dip. When Margaret saw him, her breath caught—but he smiled at her, soft and warm. There was no bitterness in his eyes. Just respect.

They embraced.

“You look happy,” he said.

“I am.”

He nodded. “Then I’m glad I came.”

Later, as the sky turned lavender and the men of Easy Company shared stories in low voices, Margaret stood at the edge of the clearing, looking out over the fields.

Speirs joined her, slipping his hand into hers.

“Hard to believe we made it here,” he murmured.

“We did more than survive,” she said. “We found something worth surviving for.”

And as the leaves turned, and the world slowly knit itself back together, Ronald Speirs—forged in fire, tempered by love—held the hand of the woman who had seen him not just as a soldier, but as a man worth loving.

[mykindalovr]

Two quiet hearts (Richard Winters x Fem nurse oc/Ronald Speirs x Fem nurse oc)

Summary: Richard Winters and Ronald Speirs both have feelings for a nurse who is volunteering at a makeshift hospital but don't act on it. When she gets badly hurt, their feelings are more out in the open.

Warnings: Injury and mentions of blood

No disrespect to the actual war veterans this is just based on the actor portrayal.

I try and use different names for oc fanfics…and I know I used the same name in this fanfic and in my love at first sight? Ronald fanfic but I’m too lazy to fix it

The winter of 1945 had laid a heavy stillness over the town of Haguenau. Snow blanketed the ground like a shroud, softening the edges of broken buildings and muffling the distant rumble of artillery. Amid the cold and chaos, a makeshift field hospital had been erected in the basement of an abandoned school, its flickering lanterns casting long shadows on peeling walls.

First Lieutenant Richard Winters entered the hospital with mud still on his boots. He had come not out of necessity, but for a brief reprieve. He told himself it was to check on the wounded, but he knew that wasn’t the entire truth.

She was there again, bent over a cot, tucking a blanket around a boy from Easy Company who had taken shrapnel to the leg. Her name was Margaret, a British nurse from the Red Cross who had somehow made this wreck of a basement feel more like a refuge than a ruin.

Winters watched her quietly for a moment before she turned, her face lighting up when she saw him.

“Lieutenant Winters,” she said with that lilting accent. “Come to see how your boys are doing?”

He smiled faintly, the corners of his mouth barely turning. “That’s right.”

She led him around the room, speaking in a low voice, brushing her auburn hair behind her ear as she moved from cot to cot. Winters admired the calm strength in her presence—the way the men relaxed when she touched their hands or offered a warm word.

He didn’t notice Speirs enter.

Captain Ronald Speirs moved like a shadow—quiet, direct, purposeful. Winters caught his presence too late, just as Margaret turned to greet him with the same warm smile.

“Captain Speirs, you’re not wounded, I hope?”

“No,” Speirs said, his voice curt but not unkind. “I came to check on Private Hastings.”

“Over there, next to the stove.” She pointed.

As Speirs moved past Winters, their eyes met. There was a flicker of something—acknowledgment, tension, unspoken understanding.

They both knew.

Later, in the cold outside, Winters found Speirs smoking alone behind the hospital. Snow fell in delicate sheets, softening the harshness of war.

“You care for her,” Winters said, not as an accusation, but as a fact.

Speirs took a long drag of his cigarette before answering. “You do too.”

Winters didn’t reply. He didn’t have to.

“She doesn’t know,” Speirs added, almost thoughtfully. “Probably for the best.”

“She has enough to carry,” Winters said. “No reason to make it heavier.”

They stood in silence for a long time, the smoke from Speirs’ cigarette twisting up into the snowfall.

Finally, Speirs glanced at him. “You ever think about after?”

Winters hesitated. “Sometimes.”

“She might not even be there, when it’s over,” Speirs said. “This war… it’s not the kind of place you build anything lasting.”

“No,” Winters said quietly. “But it makes you realize what you want to build when it’s done.”

Inside, Margaret hummed softly as she checked pulses and changed dressings, oblivious to the quiet war waging outside between two of the men who had fought so many louder ones.

The shelling came without warning.

It was early morning, the kind of gray, fog-hung dawn that made it hard to tell whether it was night or day. Winters had just finished writing a casualty report when the ground shook beneath his boots. The thunderclap of mortar fire echoed off the ruins, and screams rose up from the direction of the school-turned-hospital.

By the time he got there, smoke poured from the front hall. The building had taken a direct hit.

Inside, men staggered through debris, calling out for help. Winters found her in the far corner of the basement, buried under fallen beams and a crumbling section of ceiling. Her uniform was soaked in blood—some of it hers, some not. She was conscious, barely.

“Margaret!” he shouted, falling to his knees beside her.

“Richard?” she said weakly, blinking up at him. “Is everyone…?”

“Don’t speak,” he said, his voice tight with something deeper than concern.

Others came—medics, soldiers, Speirs.

When he saw her, Speirs didn’t speak. He dropped to her other side and helped lift the beam pinning her down. His hands, usually so steady, trembled slightly.

“Easy,” Winters warned.

Speirs didn’t look at him. His focus was entirely on her.

They got her out, and as medics began working over her, both men stepped back into the shadows of the room. Margaret drifted in and out of consciousness, whispering nonsense and names, her brow slick with sweat.

Outside, the snow fell again, this time pinked with ash.

For three days, she teetered between fever and lucidity.

Winters visited first.

It was night, and the church was quiet, lit only by the soft flicker of candles. He sat beside her, removing his helmet and resting it on the floor. Her breath was shallow but steady, her face pale against the white sheets.

“I don’t know if you can hear me,” he said, voice low, “but I need to say this while I have the chance.”

He folded his hands, as if in prayer.

“You’ve been a light, Margaret. For the men, yes—but also for me. I’ve spent months trying to do the right thing, to lead, to keep good men alive. And in all of that… you reminded me what gentleness looks like. What it feels like to care about something—someone—beyond orders and objectives.”

He paused, eyes on the floor.

“If I’ve been quiet, it’s because I didn’t think I had the right to feel anything during a war. But I do feel. For you.”

He stood, brushing his fingers lightly against hers. “Whatever comes next, I needed you to know.”

He was gone before she stirred.

She awoke fully a day later. Her thoughts were muddled, her ribs wrapped tight, one leg splinted.

She was speaking with a young soldier—offering him comfort she could barely gather herself—when Speirs came.

He waited until the boy was wheeled away before stepping beside her bed. She looked up, surprised.

“Captain.”

“You’re tougher than you look,” he said. A half-smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“So I’ve been told.”

He looked like he might turn and leave, but then he stayed—hands behind his back, stiff posture betraying the tension beneath his calm.

“I don’t say things like this,” he began, “but I almost lost you. And it made something clear.”

Margaret blinked at him. “What did it make clear?”

“That I care for you.” His voice never wavered. “It’s not easy to feel anything out here. It’s easier to shut it off, to become whatever the war requires. But you… you broke through that. You saw us—me—as more than soldiers. You reminded me I’m still a man.”

He looked down, then back at her.

“I don’t expect anything. But I thought you deserved to know.”

And then, just like Winters, he left—without waiting for a reply.

Margaret lay awake long after that.

Two men—so different, both forged by fire—had opened their hearts to her in the quiet aftermath of violence. She replayed their words again and again. Not flattery, not desperation—just honesty, raw and unvarnished.

They had each spoken to her not to win her, but to unburden something true.

She felt the weight of it.

And her own heart answered, quietly: I care for them both.

Not in the same way. Winters brought her calm, steadiness, the gentleness of something lasting. Speirs stirred something wilder, deeper—a recognition of pain, of survival, of the darkness they both carried.

What future could exist in a world like this? She didn’t know. But now, she understood. Her place in their hearts wasn’t a mystery anymore.

And in the ruins of the war, maybe that was a beginning.

Alternative ending

[mykindalovr]

The letter in the crib (Ronald Speirs x Fem oc)

Summary: Ronald and his wife Emily are expecting their first child together.

Warnings: none

And ofc no disrespect to the actual war veterans, this is just based on the actor portrayal.

The evening air was crisp, tinged with the scent of autumn leaves and chimney smoke as Ronald Speirs walked up the front steps of their modest New England home. His uniform coat, buttoned tight against the chill, still bore the sharp creases from a long day behind a desk—far from the battlefield, but service nonetheless. The war had been over for years, yet his gait was still measured, precise. Some things never changed.

But home… home had changed him.

Inside, warmth poured from the hearth, mingling with the faint scent of cinnamon and something baking—Emily had a knack for filling the house with little comforts. Lights were low, a soft golden glow casting gentle shadows across the wooden floors. As he opened the door, he called out, his voice calm but expectant.

“Em?”

“In here!” came her voice, light and bright from the living room.

He stepped inside, loosening his coat, the familiar creak of the floorboards beneath his boots like a song he knew by heart.

That’s when he saw it.

In the center of the room, just in front of the fireplace, stood a tiny white crib. Brand new. Pristine. A single note lay inside it, resting atop a folded onesie that read in soft, stitched letters: “Reporting for duty, March 1950.”

He froze.

The world narrowed for a moment, his sharp eyes locked on that little crib. The note, written in Emily’s delicate hand, read:

“After all this time, we’re finally being promoted… to Mom and Dad.”

He turned slowly—and there she was, standing by the fireplace, her hands nervously clasped over her stomach, eyes wide and full of unspoken joy.

“I found out this morning,” she whispered. “I wanted to surprise you.”

For a moment, he didn’t speak. His silence wasn’t hesitation—it was awe. Then the crack broke in his stern expression, the corners of his mouth lifting, eyes crinkling, a laugh escaping his throat—soft and disbelieving.

“You’re serious?” he asked, stepping toward her, voice hushed, reverent.

She nodded, tears welling.

Without another word, he closed the distance, lifting her into his arms effortlessly, spinning her once, twice, as she laughed and clung to him. Her feet barely touched the ground before he pulled her in close, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other resting over hers on her stomach.

“You’re going to be a wonderful mother,” he murmured against her hair.

She pulled back to look at him, wiping a tear from her cheek. “And you’re going to be the kind of father stories are told about.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Let’s hope they’re good stories.”

She smiled, cupping his cheek. “The best kind.”

He kissed her then, slow and sure, like every promise he couldn’t say out loud.

That night, they sat on the floor beside the crib, knees touching, fingers entwined. He traced the tiny onesie with one hand, still stunned at the idea of something so small, so fragile, entering their world.

From the moment they saw the plus sign, something shifted in Ronald. Emily noticed it in the way he hovered—gently, silently. He didn’t say much about it, but he’d always been a man of action rather than words.

He started walking her to and from every appointment, even if he had to rearrange his work schedule. If she so much as winced or touched her lower back, he’d appear at her side like a shadow, steady and calm but watching with the eyes of a hawk.

“You sure you’re okay?” “Just a cramp, Ron.” “We’re going home.” “It’s been two minutes.” “Exactly.”

Emily teased him, but deep down, she loved it—how this man, who’d once jumped out of planes into enemy fire without blinking, looked absolutely wrecked if she so much as yawned too hard.

He read parenting books under the covers at night with a flashlight, claiming he “wasn’t tired yet.” He checked the smoke detectors twice. Cleared a small arsenal of baby-proofing tools off their counters every Sunday. Repainted the nursery wall three times until it was "soft enough for a baby."

The ultrasound appointment came on a chilly morning in November. Emily lay on the table, a warm blanket over her belly as the tech moved the wand across her skin. Ronald sat beside her, gripping her hand like she was going into battle.

He said nothing at first, watching the screen with quiet intensity—his jaw tight, eyes focused.

And then the flicker appeared. The heartbeat. The outline of tiny arms and legs, kicking like a little soldier in training.

“You want to know the gender?” the nurse asked, smiling.

Emily looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Do we?”

Ronald turned to her, and for the first time in the appointment, a soft grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I do.”

The nurse grinned. “Congratulations—you’re having a girl.”

Emily gasped, a hand to her mouth, and Ronald just… stared at the screen.

A girl.

For a long beat, he didn’t speak. But then he let out a long breath and turned to Emily.

“She’s gonna be trouble,” he said quietly. “I can already tell.”

Emily laughed through her tears. “Just like her dad.”

After that, something in him changed again. He started calling the baby “his girl.” He picked up little socks the size of cotton balls and stared at them like they were medals. He practiced swaddling on a pillow, arms awkward but determined.

But Emily’s favorite part of every day was at night, when the world was quiet and the fire had burned down to embers.

Ronald would come home, kick off his boots, change out of uniform—and then collapse on the couch with his head in her lap.

“Long day?” she’d ask, fingers running through his dark hair.

“Better now,” he’d murmur.

He’d rest his ear gently against her belly, motionless for a moment. Then, when he felt the flutter—tiny kicks, like whispers beneath the skin—he’d close his eyes, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

“Hey there,” he’d whisper. “You giving your mom trouble already?”

Emily would chuckle, running her fingers through his hair as he spoke in hushed tones to the little girl who hadn’t yet arrived but already had his heart wrapped tight.

“I hope you look like your mom,” he’d say. “But if you’ve got my stubborn streak… God help us all.”

Sometimes he’d just lie there, eyes closed, listening to the rhythm of life beneath her skin like it was the only sound in the world that mattered.

Other nights, he’d kiss her belly goodnight, low and reverent, and whisper:

“I’ll protect you. Both of you. Always.”

Those nights became their rhythm—Emily humming lullabies into the quiet, and Ronald dreaming of a future that, for once, wasn’t weighed down by war.

And for a man who had once stared death in the face without flinching, nothing had ever scared him more—or thrilled him more—than the thought of holding his daughter in his arms for the first time.

It started like any other night.

The air outside was calm, and Ronald had just laid his head on Emily’s lap, his hand resting gently over her swollen belly. They had named her months ago—but kept it between them, like a secret prayer they didn’t want to jinx.

Lillian Grace Speirs.

Ronald was telling the baby about how her room was finally painted the “right kind of yellow,” and how he was going to teach her how to make pancakes someday, when Emily inhaled sharply.

He sat up. “What is it?”

She winced, one hand on her lower back. “I think... I think that was a contraction.”

He blinked. “That kind of think, or definitely think?”

Emily gave him a wide-eyed, half-horrified look. “Definitely.”

Within ten minutes, they were in the car, Ronald’s hand on the wheel, his jaw clenched tight. But his voice was calm. He’d seen chaos. He knew how to stay steady in a storm.

“You’re doing good, Em,” he kept saying. “We’re almost there.”

“I swear to God if you quote a field manual to me right now—”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The hospital was bright and humming with quiet urgency. Ronald walked beside her every step of the way, his hand never leaving hers. The nurse tried to get him to wait in the hallway at one point. He stared her down with the kind of intensity that could freeze fire.

“I’m not leaving her.”

Emily, through gritted teeth, muttered, “Yeah, good luck trying.”

Hours passed.

Contractions intensified. Ronald wiped sweat from her forehead, coached her breathing, whispered things he never said in public. Emily, between gasps and groans, would squeeze his hand like a vice.

At one point, she cried out, “I can’t do this.”

And Ronald—his voice steady, low, full of unwavering belief—said: “Yes, you can. You already are.”

Then, the moment came.

“Last push, Emily—she’s almost here!”

And with one final cry and a flurry of motion, a new sound entered the world—a sharp, tiny wail.

Ronald froze.

The room around him faded. He heard the cry, saw the nurse lift a squirming, red-faced baby into the air, and his heart—this soldier’s heart—broke wide open.

“She’s here,” Emily whispered weakly, eyes shimmering. “Ron…”

The nurse turned, swaddled bundle in her arms. “Dad? You want to hold her?”

He stepped forward slowly, as if approaching something sacred. He took her in his arms for the first time, staring down at the tiny face tucked against the blanket.

She had a head of dark hair. Her mouth puckered in confusion. She was perfect.

Ronald didn’t speak.

Not at first.

He just stood there, his arms surprisingly steady, as if all those years of war and discipline had been training him for this moment—to hold something this small, this fragile, and promise to keep her safe.

He finally looked down, eyes soft, voice cracking.

“Hi, Lillian.”

She squirmed slightly, let out a tiny sound, and Ronald actually laughed—a short, breathless sound like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

He brought her closer, kissed her forehead, then turned back to Emily, who lay exhausted but glowing.

“You did it,” he whispered.

We did it, her eyes said.

He walked over to her bedside and knelt down beside her, Lillian cradled against his chest. Their daughter.

“She’s so small,” he said, awe in every word.

Emily smiled, eyes closing. “She’s ours.”

That night, long after the nurses had gone quiet and the halls had dimmed, Ronald sat in the chair beside Emily’s bed, Lillian curled up in his arms.

He told her about the first time he saw her mother.

He told her about strength and love and how, even in a world full of war, there are things worth fighting for.

And then he said the words he’d never said out loud until now.

“I didn’t know I could love something this much.”

And Lillian, as if responding, made the tiniest sound, pressed her little fist against his chest.

He looked down at her and whispered,

“You’ve got your orders now, kid. Be happy. Be strong. And don’t break your mother’s heart—she’s been through enough.”

First Steps.

It happened in the living room, just after dinner. Ronald was setting down the plates when he saw her, standing—really standing—for the first time. She looked at him with wide, uncertain eyes, then wobbled forward.

One step. Two.

“Emily,” he breathed. “She’s—”

Three. Four.

She fell into his arms.

He scooped her up, laughing, holding her high in the air like she’d just captured a flag.

“You did it,” he whispered. “That’s my girl.”

First Words.

She said “Mama” first, and Emily won that round fair and square. But a few weeks later, she pointed at him, serious and focused.

“Dada.”

Ronald froze, spoon halfway to his mouth. “What did you say?”

She grinned, showing off a tooth and a half. “Dada!”

He turned to Emily, shell-shocked. “She said it. She said Dada.”

Emily smiled over her coffee. “Yep. You’re doomed now.”

Sometimes he’d fall asleep in the rocking chair, arms crossed, still in boots, just to be sure.

By the time she was five, she had Ronald wrapped around each finger, one at a time.

He built her a dollhouse by hand. Read The Very Hungry Caterpillar so many times he had it memorized. Went to parent conferences in full dress uniform and scared at least one poor teacher into complimenting Lillian’s handwriting excessively.

He didn’t talk about the war much. But one night, when she was tucked in and sleepy-eyed, she asked, “Were you scared when you were a soldier?”

Ronald paused, then sat on the edge of her bed, running a hand through his graying hair.

“I was,” he said. “But not like I was the day you were born.”

“Why?”

“Because out there,” he said, pointing to the window, “I knew how to fight. But this? Being your dad? It’s the most important thing I’ve ever done. And I don’t get to mess it up.”

She was already asleep.

He kissed her forehead and added, “And I won’t. Ever.”

In every quiet moment—whether she was sleeping in the backseat after a long car ride or laughing in the backyard, chasing butterflies with a net twice her size—Ronald would stop and stare like he couldn’t quite believe it.

That this was his life now.

That somehow, after all the blood, the battles, and the brokenness, he’d found peace in the soft footfalls of a little girl.

His little girl.

[mykindalovr]

Beneath the Bacta Lights (Anakin Skywalker x Fem nurse oc)

My first star wars fan fic!!

warnings: none

Note: I know that Jedi can force heal but let’s pretend that he just didn’t do it for this fan fic 😁

The clang of lightsabers echoed through the vast chamber of the Jedi Temple’s sparring arena. Anakin Skywalker, still a Padawan under the mentorship of Obi-Wan Kenobi, moved with a fierce precision, his blade an arc of blue energy slicing through the air. But his thoughts, as always, drifted elsewhere — his mother, the war rumors, and a growing unrest in his chest he couldn’t quite name.

“Focus, Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, parrying sharply. “You leave your side open.”

Anakin scowled. “I’m fine.”

And then—pain. A misstep. His foot slid on the polished floor. Obi-Wan’s saber struck true—not lethally, but enough to send a surge of burning heat across Anakin’s shoulder. He fell, hissing between clenched teeth.

“That’s enough for today,” Obi-Wan said calmly, deactivating his saber. “Go to the medbay. Get that checked out.”

Grumbling, Anakin stood and stalked toward the temple's infirmary, pressing a hand to the singed edge of his tunic. The burn throbbed, raw and angry.

The medbay was quiet that time of day, its white walls glowing softly under sterile lights. Droids hovered quietly, and healers moved like whispers.

She stood near one of the bacta tanks, reading a datapad, her brow furrowed in concentration. She wore simple white robes with soft blue trim—standard Jedi healer garb—but the way she carried herself, calm and focused, made her stand out. She wasn't a Jedi, though. Not a Knight. Her presence in the Force was warm but quiet.

She looked up when he entered, and their eyes met. Her eyes were green. Not just green—deep. Like the forests of Naboo.

“You’re injured,” she said, setting the pad aside and moving toward him.

“Training injury,” he replied, trying to sound nonchalant. “I’ve had worse.”

She gave him a look that walked the line between amused and exasperated. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t be treated.”

He sat down on the edge of a med-table, wincing as she peeled back the fabric of his tunic.

“This is a deep plasma burn,” she murmured. “You’ll need bacta salve and a regeneration patch.”

“You seem like you’ve done this before.”

“I have.” She dabbed the salve gently onto his shoulder. It stung, but her touch was gentle. “You Jedi take a lot of punishment.”

Anakin studied her face while she worked. Her features were delicate, but her eyes were sharp. She didn’t look much older than he was.

“What’s your name?” he asked, voice softer than usual.

She paused briefly, then glanced at him with the faintest smile. “Kaelira.”

“Kaelira,” he repeated, like a taste he wasn’t ready to forget. “You’re not a Jedi?”

She shook her head. “I trained for it. But healing called to me more than combat ever did.”

“Smart choice.”

She raised an eyebrow. “I’ve seen you in the records. Anakin Skywalker. Obi-Wan’s Padawan. The ‘Chosen One.’”

He rolled his eyes. “That’s what they say.”

“You don’t believe it?”

He hesitated. “I don’t know what I believe. Some days I feel like I could take on the whole galaxy. Others…” He trailed off, and she didn’t press.

Kaelira placed the patch over his wound, securing it gently. “You’ll be fine in a few hours. Try not to overexert it.”

“Thanks.” He slid off the table, slower than before. “Kaelira…”

She turned to face him fully.

“Can I… see you again?”

A pause.

“I mean, I know this is the Jedi Temple, and we’re not supposed to—”

“I’m not bound by the Jedi Code,” she said quietly. “And you didn’t say why you wanted to see me again.”

Anakin smirked. “Maybe I just like talking to someone who isn’t always quoting Master Yoda.”

She smiled, a real one this time. “Then maybe you should get hurt more often.”

He laughed—actually laughed, in a way he hadn’t for a while. The burden of being “Anakin Skywalker” faded, just for a moment.

Over the next few weeks, he found himself lingering in the medbay more often. Sometimes with minor injuries, sometimes with excuses that didn’t hold up under scrutiny.

Kaelira always greeted him with the same calm demeanor, though a glint in her eye said she knew exactly what he was doing.

They talked.

About healing, about the Temple, about the stars and the war that loomed just beyond the horizon.

He told her things he hadn’t told Obi-Wan.

She listened.

And slowly, something began to grow between them — quiet but insistent, like a spark in dry grass.

One evening, after a rough training mission on Coruscant’s lower levels, Anakin returned with a gash across his ribs. Kaelira cleaned it in silence, her hands more tender than they had any right to be.

He looked at her then, really looked. The way her hair framed her face, the way her lips parted slightly when she concentrated.

“I hate the Code sometimes,” he said.

Kaelira met his eyes. “So do I.”

And in that moment, the distance between Jedi and healer, between war and peace, between duty and feeling — vanished.

She kissed him first.

They would go on pretending, for a while. Anakin would carry the secret in his heart like he carried so many others — heavier with each passing day. But in Kaelira, he found a balm the Force could not give. Not destiny. Not prophecy.

Just her.

And in the flickering lights of the medbay, beneath the scent of bacta and silence, Anakin Skywalker learned that even a Chosen One can fall — not to darkness, not to fear.

But to love.

[mykindalovr]

🌟Welcome to My Tumblr🌟

Hey there, traveler of the web!

Welcome to my little corner of the internet. I’m so glad you found your way here. 🕺🏻

✨Who Am I?

I'm Hannah! / mykindalovr— just a 20 yr old hopeless romantic who’s in nursing school and loves reading, anything outdoors, Star Wars, Band of Brothers, Walking Dead, and Harry Styles

📌 What You'll Find Here:

• My fanfics/one-shots (mainly fluff)

• This blog is going to mainly be band of brothers fanfics/one-shots with an occasional Star Wars one here and there

• Aesthetics and vibes

• A safe, inclusive space for anyone who needs it 💛

Thanks for stopping by.

You're safe here, and you're welcome to stay as long as you'd like. Feel free to scroll, follow, reblog, or just vibe in the background. ✨

— Hannah / mykindalovr 💌

—————————————————————————

My master lists:

↠Band of Brothers

↠Star Wars

↠↠Beneath the Bacta Lights

[mykindalovr]

Love at first sight? (Ronald Speirs x Fem oc)

Summary: Ronald Speirs doesn't believe in love at first sight, so why does it feel like that?

Warnings: none

And ofc no disrespect to the actual war veterans this is just based on the actor portrayal.

"You ever get that feeling, Wild Bill?" Ronald Speirs took a swig of his beer, his eyes scanning the crowded bar. The air had smoke and the muffled sound of laughter, as the soldiers of Dog Company and Easy Company tried to shake the dust of war from their boots.

"What's that, Sir?" Bill Guarnere looked up from his card game, one eyebrow quirked in curiosity. The jukebox in the corner played a lively tune that had a few of the men tapping their feet.

"Like you're being watched," Speirs said, his voice low.

Guarnere followed Speirs' gaze to where a young woman with auburn hair swayed in time with the music, a smile playing on her lips as she danced with a guy in a leather jacket. "Ah, you've got the eye for the ladies, Captain."

The woman's laughter floated over the chatter and clinking of glasses. She had an easy grace to her, a natural charm that seemed to make the whole room brighter. Speirs couldn't look away. It was like a punch to the gut, the kind that leaves you breathless. Love at first sight? Perhaps. Or maybe it was just the need for something soft in a world gone too hard.

He set his drink down, the decision made. He had to talk to her. As he made his way through the crowd, the other soldiers looked on with a mix of envy and amusement. They knew that look. The one that said he was about to go all in.

The auburn-haired woman stopped dancing, and Speirs' heart skipped a beat. She stepped away from her friend, the guy in the leather jacket, and for a moment, she was all alone. It was his chance. He approached her, his boots heavy on the wooden floor. "Ma'am, care to dance?"

She looked up, her eyes widening slightly as she took in his military uniform, the insignia of his rank, and the hardened lines of his face. But there was a spark there too, a hint of curiosity. "I'd be delighted."

And with that, Ronald Speirs led her onto the dance floor, his hand firm at the small of her back, his eyes never leaving hers. As they danced, he felt the weight of the war drop away, replaced by the gentle pressure of her hand in his. The music played on, a sweet serenade to a moment that felt both stolen and utterly right. He didn't know her name, didn't know her story, but he knew that for now, he wanted to be the only man in her world.

As they twirled around, other men in the bar cast glances their way, and Speirs felt a possessive urge rise within him. He wanted to tell them all to back off, to keep their distance. But he didn't have to say a word. His grip tightened, and she leaned closer, as if she'd read his thoughts. They danced until the song ended, and then the next one began, and the one after that. The night was young, and Speirs had no intention of letting her go.

The guy in the leather jacket watched them from the sidelines, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. He knew the look on Speirs' face. It was the same one he had every time he saw her. But he was her friend, not her beau. He had brought her here to have a good time, not to stake a claim.

Speirs leaned in, his voice low and gruff. "You know, I've seen a lot of things in my life, but I've never seen anything quite as beautiful as you."

Her cheeks flushed pink, and she ducked her head. "Thank you," she murmured. "That's very kind of you to say."

He tilted her chin up, forcing her to meet his gaze. "It's not kindness. It's the truth."

They danced and talked into the early hours, sharing stories that didn't involve war or loss. For the first time in a long time, Speirs felt alive. The air between them crackled with something electric, something that made him feel like he could conquer the world. Or at least, the small corner of it that was this bar.

But as the night grew later, and the music slower, the shadows grew longer. The war wasn't just outside the bar's doors anymore; it was creeping back into his thoughts. The way she looked at him, the way she laughed, it all felt too good to be true. And yet, here they were.

When the band took a break, she led him to a table in the back, her hand in his. They sat, and she looked up at him, her eyes searching. "What's your name?"

"Ronald," he said, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat. "But everyone calls me Speirs."

"Ronald," she repeated, testing the name on her tongue. "I'm Elizabeth."

He nodded, memorizing the curve of her smile, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she was happy. "Elizabeth," he said. "A beautiful name for a beautiful woman."

She rolled her eyes, but the blush remained. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

Speirs chuckled. "I hope so," he said. "I hope so."

And as the night grew darker outside, and the candles on the tables flickered, the two of them sat there, lost in their own little world, forgetting about everything else for just a little while longer.

"I can't believe the time," Speirs said, glancing at his watch. "I have to be back at base before dawn."

Elizabeth’s smile faded a little, and she reached out to touch his hand. "I had a wonderful time," she said softly.

He squeezed her hand in return. "Me too, Elizabeth. More than you could ever know."

He knew he had to ask, even though the words stuck in his throat. "Could I…write to you?"

Her eyes lit up, and she nodded eagerly. "Yes," she said. "Please do."

They exchanged addresses, their hands shaking slightly, as if the reality of the moment was too much to bear. He could see the hope in her eyes, and he vowed to himself that he would write her every day, to keep this spark alive.

As the bar began to empty out and the soldiers started to make their way back to the world they knew, Speirs walked Elizabeth to the door. The cold night air hit them like a slap in the face, a harsh reminder of the world that waited outside.

"Thank you," she whispered, her breath misting in the cold. "For everything."

He didn't know what possessed him to do this, but he did anyway- he leaned down and kissed her, a gentle press of his lips to hers, the kind of kiss that promises a thousand more. And when he pulled away, he knew he was leaving a piece of himself behind. "Thank you," he said, his voice gruff with emotion.

He watched her go, her figure disappearing into the night, and then he turned back to the bar, to the life that was waiting for him. But he knew that from this moment on, every letter he wrote, every battle he faced, would be for her. For the possibility of a future filled with more nights like this.

The walk back to the base was quiet, the only sound the crunch of gravel under his boots. His mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, all centered on Elizabeth. He replayed the night in his head, every moment with her burned into his memory like a photograph.

And as he reached the gates, he turned back one last time, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. But she was gone, swallowed by the night.

All he had was the promise of her letters, and the hope that the war wouldn't steal this from him too.

[mykindalovr]

It all started with a photograph (Richard Winters x fem oc!)

Summary: You're childhood best friends with Lewis Nixon and he shows you a photograph of him and his best friend.

Warnings: none :)

And ofc no disrespect to the actual war veterans this is just based on the actors who portrayed them.

Snow flurries drifted like ashes through the sky, catching in the creases of my coat as I made my way to the bar on 63rd and Lexington. It was a little dive Lewis Nixon had picked—said it reminded him of a place in Bastogne, only with central heating and whiskey that didn’t taste like wood polish.

When I pushed the door open, warmth and jazz flooded out to greet me. Nix was already there, hunched over a glass of something golden, half-lit cigarette trailing smoke beside him.

“There you are,” he said, standing just enough to pull out the chair beside him. “I was starting to think you’d left me to drink alone like some tragic Hemingway character.”

I smirked, peeling off my gloves. “You? Tragic? You’d charm your way into the epilogue.”

He grinned, eyes a little tired but still gleaming with that signature mischief. “Fair point. But you’d be the real heart of the story, kid.”

Nixon always called me ‘kid,’ even though I was maybe a year younger—two at most. It never felt condescending, just... protective, like I was someone he’d drag out of the worst hellhole and still expect to be smiling after. And he had.

I sat, and he poured a second glass without asking. I was halfway through my first sip when he pulled a crumpled photo from his coat pocket.

“You ever seen a better-looking pair of bastards?” he said, laying it flat on the bar top.

It was a snapshot, probably taken somewhere in Austria. Two men in uniform, standing in a field. Nixon—unsurprisingly—was mid-laugh, holding a canteen like a flask. But it was the man beside him who caught my eye.

Tall. Poised. Auburn hair just starting to curl from humidity, strong jawline, and eyes that even through black-and-white looked sharp enough to cut steel. He wasn’t smiling, not really—but there was something settled about him. Like he’d seen the worst and walked through it anyway.

“Who’s that?” I asked, trying not to sound too interested.

Nix leaned back, the beginnings of a smug smirk on his lips. “That, my friend, is Dick Winters.”

I tried to play it cool. “He’s... got a presence.”

“A presence,” Nixon repeated with a bark of a laugh. “Jesus, that’s one way to say you’d like to climb him like a fire escape.”

I nearly choked on my drink. “I did not say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” Nixon tapped the photo. “He’s one of the best men I’ve ever known. Brave, loyal, moral to a fault—annoyingly so, sometimes. And don’t even get me started on his handwriting.”

“His handwriting?”

“Looks like a damn typewriter,” he muttered. “Show-off.”

I laughed, but my eyes drifted back to the picture. “He seems... solid. The kind of person you’d trust with everything.”

Nixon’s voice softened a little. “Yeah. That’s exactly what he is.”

A few drinks later, we stumbled out into the cold, laughter echoing between buildings. As we reached the corner where we’d part ways, Nixon stopped, his tone shifting just slightly.

“You know,” he said, digging into his coat again. “He’s seen a picture of you, too.”

I blinked. “Wait—what?”

Nixon grinned. “Don’t act shocked. I was drunk, we were talking about people who kept us sane during the war. Naturally, you came up. I might’ve shown him that photo of you on the fire escape, the one where you’re pretending to be reading but actually asleep.”

I rolled my eyes. “You ass.”

“He liked it. Said something about your face being... what was it? ‘Open. Gentle. Someone you could talk to.’” Nixon watched me closely. “He asked about you. More than once.”

The snow had started again, soft and quiet. The kind that made the city feel like a secret.

“I didn’t know he lived nearby,” I said, voice quieter now.

“He’s upstate. But he’s coming into the city next weekend. I was gonna meet him for lunch... thought maybe you’d come.”

I tried to hide my smile and failed. “You setting me up, Nix?”

He smirked. “Would you mind if I was?”

The Next Weekend

I was nervous. More nervous than I’d been in years. Lewis had picked a little café near Central Park, nothing fancy, but he’d made a point to get a table by the window. Said Winters liked watching people pass.

When we walked in, Richard Winters was already there. No uniform now—just a simple brown coat, scarf tucked neatly around his neck. He stood when we approached, and when our eyes met, the noise of the world dimmed.

“Richard,” Lewis said, “this is my best friend—Caroline, the one I warned you about.”

Winters offered his hand, warm and steady. “It’s very good to meet you. I’ve heard... a lot.”

“Likewise,” I said, barely trusting my voice. “And for the record—I was reading in that photo.”

He chuckled. “Sure you were.”

Winter's POV when Lewis showed him Caroline's picture-

The war was winding down, but peace still felt like a rumor. There were no bullets flying anymore, no mortars screaming through the trees, but in the quiet, the weight of everything we’d done—everything we’d seen—settled into our bones heavier than any rifle.

I was sitting on a crate outside the commandeered farmhouse we used as a command post. The fields stretched out in every direction, serene and haunting. Nixon came out, bottle in one hand, that ever-present cigarette in the other. He looked like hell, which meant he looked better than he had in months.

“You gonna brood all afternoon?” he asked, flopping down beside me with all the grace of a man who had never once cared about wrinkles in a uniform.

“Just thinking,” I said, watching a pair of birds cut across the sky. “Trying to remember what comes next.”

Nixon took a long drag and exhaled like the war itself had taken residence in his lungs.

“Speaking of next,” he said, reaching into his jacket, “I ever show you this?”

He pulled out a creased photograph, handed it to me without ceremony. I expected some pin-up—he carried plenty of those—but what I saw wasn’t what I expected at all.

She was sitting on a rusted fire escape, one leg tucked under her, a book splayed open in her lap. Her eyes were closed, lips parted slightly like she'd just dozed off mid-sentence. There was sunlight on her face, soft and golden. She looked... peaceful. And real.

“She’s my best friend,” Nix said casually, like he hadn’t just handed me a photograph that cracked open something in my chest. “Smart as hell. Sharper than me, though I’ll never admit it outside of a whiskey-soaked confession.”

I stared at the image. “Where was this taken?”

“New York. Summer before the war. She always said that fire escape was her thinking spot.” He paused, voice softening. “Kept me sane. Letters, drawings, weird stories about neighbors and subway rats the size of cats.”

There was something about her face that struck me. Not just her beauty—though it was there, undeniably—but the lightness. Like she hadn’t let the world harden her. Like maybe, just maybe, the world hadn’t quite ruined everything.

“She’s beautiful,” I said, quieter than I meant.

Nixon glanced at me. “You should see her in person.”

I handed the photo back, but my hand lingered a moment longer than it needed to.

“You miss her,” I said.

“Every damn day.”

I looked back toward the fields. I hadn’t thought much about what I wanted after the war. Peace, maybe. A place to breathe. But in that moment, with her image still warm in my hand, something shifted.

I wanted to meet the kind of person who made Lewis Nixon sound hopeful again.

“She ever ask about me?” I asked, not looking at him.

There was a pause. I knew Nixon well enough to recognize when he was choosing his words.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “She saw a picture of us once. Said you looked like someone who doesn’t talk much, but listens when it matters.”

I smiled, just barely.

Maybe the war wasn’t the end of everything. Maybe it was just the end of the noise—and something quieter, better, was waiting beyond it.

Maybe... someone was.

Should I make a part 2? Maybe create a mini-series out of this? Stuff like their first date? letters they write back and forth?

[mykindalovr]

No Retreat (Ronald Speirs x Fem oc)

Summary: Ronald asks his girlfriend to marry him

Warnings: slight ptsd

And ofc no disrespect to the actual war veterans, this is just based on the actor portrayal

War had shaped Ronald Speirs into something few could truly understand. Ruthless when necessary, fearless under fire, and always the first to charge—he was respected, admired, and maybe even a little feared. But behind the stories, behind the silver bars and battlefield myths, was a man who never forgot how fragile life really was.

And somehow, she-Nancy-had found her way into that guarded place he kept locked away from the rest of the world.

She wasn’t the kind of woman you impressed with medals. She didn’t flinch when he went quiet, didn’t press when the war crept into his eyes. She simply waited. Listened. And when he was ready to speak, she let him.

He had never said “I love you” out loud. Not once. Not yet. But she knew.

So when he decided to propose, it wasn’t because he was “romantic.” It was because he was decisive. Speirs didn’t hope things would last. He committed to them.

The Setup

Speirs was stationed in Berlin post-war, working with the occupation forces. The city was still scarred and shattered, but there was a strange kind of beauty in its rebuilding. Speirs understood that. Destruction was easy. Rebuilding was the hard part. The part that took real guts.

He invited Nancy to visit, under the guise of wanting to show her the city “from his eyes.” She flew over in winter. Snow on the rooftops, cold that bit right through your coat. But she came anyway—because he asked.

What she didn’t know was that he’d spent weeks preparing something quietly, meticulously—just like a mission.

He had access to a rooftop garden in a once-bombed-out building now being converted into officer quarters. It overlooked the city skyline—domes, rubble, cranes, and hope all stitched together.

He cleared the space himself. Even brought up candles in old brass casings. A small table with two chairs, one bottle of wine he'd traded rations for, and a single vase holding a white lily. That was all. Speirs didn’t believe in clutter.

The Moment

She followed him up the stairwell, boots echoing on stone, scarf pulled tight around her neck.

"Ron, what are we doing up here? It’s freezing."

He didn’t answer at first. Just opened the rooftop door and stepped aside to let her through.

When she saw it—the makeshift dinner, the view, the simplicity—her breath caught.

Speirs, ever the soldier, stood behind her. Straight-backed. Silent.

But his voice, when he finally spoke, was softer than she’d ever heard it.

"I’ve never been afraid to jump out of a plane, or charge into a firefight."

She turned toward him, a half-smile on her lips.

"I know."

"But you…" He looked her directly in the eyes now. No mask. No commander. Just a man. “You scare the hell out of me. Because you make me want things that don’t come with orders.”

She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

He stepped forward, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out a small, velvet-wrapped box.

He didn’t kneel. He didn’t have to. When Ronald Speirs looked at you like that, it felt like the whole world stopped anyway.

"I’m not promising peace, Nancy I can’t. I’m not built for easy things. But I can promise you loyalty. And a life where I never walk away. No matter how hard it gets."

He opened the box. The ring was simple. Elegant. It looked like something chosen with the same focus he gave everything.

"Will you marry me?"

A long beat of silence stretched between them. Snow fell gently around their shoulders. The city below them breathed in smoke and the hope of tomorrow.

She stepped forward, eyes wet, but steady. She reached up, cupped his face in her gloved hands.

"You don’t have to promise peace, Ron. Just promise you won’t shut me out."

"I won’t," he whispered. "Not anymore."

Then she kissed him—slow, deliberate, just like everything he’d done to get to this moment.

"Yes," she said against his lips. “Yes, I’ll marry you.”

Later that night, as they sat together watching the city rebuild below, Speirs held her hand tightly in his. He didn’t say much, but he didn’t have to. The war was over. But for once in his life, he wasn’t just surviving.

He was choosing something for himself.

No orders.

No fallback.

Just her.

No retreat.

[mykindalovr]

For her (Joseph Liebgott x Fem OC)

Summary: Joe asks his girlfriend to marry him

Warnings: slight ptsd

And ofc no disrespect to the actual war veterans, this is just based on the actor portrayal

The war was over, but the echoes still lived inside Joe. Some nights, the gunfire still roared in his ears, and other nights, silence was louder than anything. But somehow, through it all, there was Eleanor. She was the only quiet that ever made sense.

Joe was back in San Francisco now, working as a barber again. The shop was the same, more or less. Scissors still snipped, razors still hummed. But he wasn’t the same man. Not after Bastogne. Not after the things he saw. He didn’t talk much about the war, and when people asked, he’d change the subject or toss out a sarcastic remark. That was Joe—armor built out of wisecracks, heart buried deep.

Except when it came to her.

Eleanor had been writing him since basic. Just a friend at first—an old acquaintance from the neighborhood who started checking in on him when he shipped off. Then the letters grew longer, warmer. She knew when to joke, when to be gentle, and when to write nothing but, "I'm still here, Joe." That meant everything.

When he finally saw her again after the war, he didn’t know what to say. So he didn’t. He just held her, forehead to forehead, eyes closed like he was trying to memorize the feel of her. She whispered, “I missed you.” He replied, “Yeah. Me too.” That was all he could manage.

But deep down, he knew. She was it.

So, he planned something. Something big. Not flashy—he hated flashy—but meaningful.

The Plan

Joe wasn't a romantic, at least not the kind anyone would expect. But that didn’t mean he didn’t feel things. He just didn’t know how to say them. So he tried to show them.

He spent weeks quietly preparing.

He borrowed some fairy lights from a friend down the street. He went to a little antique shop Eleanor loved and picked out a record she mentioned once—Billie Holiday, her favorite. Then he asked around about where to get the kind of flowers that didn't scream, "I'm trying too hard," but still looked like he gave a damn.

He even made a little wooden sign himself, carving the letters slowly, over a week, after work, hands still steady from years of holding razors. It simply said: “You’re my peace, Eleanor.”

He didn’t write poetry. That was his poetry.

The Night

She thought they were just going out for a quiet dinner. He told her to dress nice but wouldn’t say why. She narrowed her eyes and called him out: "What’s going on, Joe?”

He shrugged. “Nothin’. You’ll see.”

They walked through the neighborhood—he was unusually quiet, hands in his pockets, jaw tight like he was walking into battle. But every time he looked at her, a softness crept into his eyes. He didn’t even realize it.

He led her toward the park where they used to hang out as kids. She rolled her eyes, teasing him. "What, are we going swing on the monkey bars?"

He smirked. “Just trust me.”

At the edge of the clearing, he pulled a blindfold out of his jacket.

She blinked. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yeah. Just—just put it on. Please.”

There was a nervous energy in his voice that made her pause. She didn’t ask questions this time. Just slid it over her eyes and let him take her hand.

He led her slowly across the grass, one step at a time.

And then they stopped.

Joe reached into his pocket, heart racing like he was in a foxhole again. He turned on the little radio he’d hidden in the grass, and Billie Holiday’s voice floated out into the night, soft and warm.

He took a deep breath, pulled the blindfold off her eyes.

The Proposal

She gasped.

The clearing was lit by strings of warm lights wrapped around the trees. The flowers—her favorite white gardenias—were scattered in a little circle around a small wooden sign, the one he carved. In the center was a blanket with dinner he’d picked up from her favorite place, packed neatly like a picnic.

And him.

Down on one knee.

Joe Liebgott—sarcastic, guarded, tough as nails—was kneeling there, holding a ring in a shaky hand.

He tried to talk, but the words stuck in his throat. So he did what he always did—pushed through with honesty.

"I ain't good at this stuff, El. You know me. I'm not... I don't talk pretty. I don't say the right things. But—" he laughed nervously, looked down, then back up at her.

"You were there for me when everything else was hell. And I don't know what the hell the future looks like, but I know I want it with you. I want… peace. And you're it."

He swallowed hard, eyes glassy. "Will you marry me?"

For the first time, Eleanor didn’t have anything clever to say either. Her hand went to her mouth. She was crying. So was he—just barely, but it was there, and he didn’t hide it.

She nodded. “Yes, Joe. Of course, yes.”

He stood up fast, almost like he was embarrassed, but she threw her arms around him before he could retreat into himself. He held her tight—too tight—and buried his face in her shoulder.

"You mean it?" he asked into her neck.

"I always did."

That night, they danced under the lights. No crowd. No cheering. Just Billie Holiday, gardenias, and two people trying to figure out what peace looked like after a world of chaos.

And for Joe Liebgott, it looked a lot like Eleanor.