Marie wiped frozen snow off the entrance of her remaining home. December air bit deep, the sharp smell of wood-smoke. The small village of Bouligny was quiet now, soldiers everywhere, but the frantic energy had settled into a weary exhaustion. She had returned to help rebuild after the Germans fled, only to find her own home stripped bare, the precious things taken or hidden. Only the basics remained.

Marie looked at the town square. A giant of a man stood there, shoulders wide under a worn field jacket. His face was youthful, but his eyes held a hard glint of someone who had seen too much. He stood under the shabby, makeshift Christmas tree someone had dragged outside the charred ruins of the baker's shop–a few candle lights still burning in the gray afternoon.

The American soldier didn't move; he never did. He watched her, his gaze sweeping down her form, lingering on the way her breath plumed in the cold air. But then, he took a step closer, the crunch of frozen earth under his boots harsh in the stillness. He didn't speak, just held out his hand, palm up. Not a demand, just an open offering.

Marie stared at his hand. He looked tired too, beneath the exhaustion etched on his face. A faint scar ran across his cheekbone, a stark white line against the smudged olive complexion. He looked like a fallen Christmas angel, half-burned.

Jack leaned down slightly, peering into her eyes, then pulled a small, worn cardboard box from his pocket. He placed it gently on the small wall beside her, nodding. Smiling at her as she opened it.

Inside, nestled on crumpled newspaper, lay a single red rose. The petals, perfectly preserved, were a deep, impossibly vibrant crimson against the faded brown paper. It looked utterly out of place, impossible in this shell-shocked landscape, yet undeniably beautiful.

She looked up, meeting his eyes. A flicker of something uncertain passed through them.

He pointed to the rose in the box, then tapped his own chest. "Jack," he said, the name thick on his tongue. He pointed at her.

"Marie," she whispered, her French emerging as a breath, not a voice.

Jack. Jack. She repeated it silently inside her skull. Like the shingles on a wharf. A solid thing.

He nodded, a tense smile touching his lips. He pointed again–first to himself, then to the half-open door behind her. "Sit."

She hesitated, then stepped inside, closely followed by Jack. She sat on the broken bench in what had been the living room, the cardboard box held in her lap like a sacred object. Jack sat beside her, not quite touching, but his knee nearly brushed hers.

The silence stretched, heavy and thick. The only sounds were the wind sighing through broken branches and the distant clang of metal from a repair party clearing rubble. Jack pulled a notebook from his pocket. He opened it, and Marie took a peek.

The notebook's pages, crumpled, edges soft from handling. Different handwriting crowded each margin beside rough English words: Merci. Bonjour. Comment allez-vous?

Jack watched her face as she smiled at him, losing herself in his eyes.

Marie looked at the flower. Roses meant love? Friendship? Something precious? She nodded slowly, her fingers brushing the velvety petal. Yes. Precious.

Jack's eyes softened almost imperceptibly. He nodded back, his own hand coming up to gently touch his chest again–me.

Jack turned his head just a fraction, his stiff lips brushed Marie's frozen cheek–a brief, sideways press. She held still, the rose's velvet stem pressing into her lap. He didn't linger.

Jack watched her face, his thumb rubbing lightly over the knuckles of his own hand cradling hers. His gaze traveled down her collarbone, lingering on the faint pulse point where the cold air bit against her skin. He leaned closer, his breath warm against her ear now. His hair tickled her cheek. "Très... très," he murmured, the syllables clumsy but low, intimate vibrations against her skin. Beautiful. Or warm? She wasn't sure. Only that the sound of his voice, so close, rough, and warm, sent a tremor through her.

His kiss was urgent, hot, demanding, evolving quickly with her permission, a language shared even better than words. Marie did not remember the last time she had kissed a man or felt this way.

Pausing to get some air between kisses, Jack pointed to the brass action buttons on her worn coat. Without waiting, his large, warm hand closed over hers where it rested on the box, guiding it first to the top button, then holding her hand as it moved down, button by button, until the coat gaped open to reveal her thin shirt. The air hit her skin, sharp and cold, a gasp escaping her lips. Not cold. The contact. His skin against hers, hot despite the cold air.

She didn't want to ruin this fragile moment. Didn't want to let any force in the world shatter the tentative connection sparked by a rose and a name. She closed her eyes, leaning her head back slightly, exposing the column of her throat to his warm breath. His warm tongue traced the edge of her jawline, just below her ear, then down her neck, a direct, startling counterpoint to the icy air.

Marie's breath hitched. Her fingers still held the cardboard box, the cold rose pressing between them like a brand. Jack's hand moved from hers, sliding up her arm, fingers digging into the soft fabric of her thin sweater, pulling her closer until there was no space between their chests. Her pointed toes pressed into the ground as he molded her against him, sending shockwaves through her, and the heat of his body started to melt the ice entirely.

His lips found the whorl of her collarbone, and his hands pushed up under the hem of her shirt, exploring the cool, smooth plane of her lower back beneath the thin barrier of her shirt. She gasped again, this time sharper, hands balling into fists on the cardboard box, crushing the fragile paper nest. Rose petals scattered beside them.

His hand slid lower, cupping her backside, pulling her hard against his body. Marie moaned, a small, involuntary sound lost in the wind. Her own hands, liberated from the box, found his waist, fumbled with the buckle of his trousers over his cold-weather gear. His fingers stopped her, his lips finding hers with sudden, claiming pressure, a silent no, not harsh, but insistent, guiding her hand back to caress the arm encircling her waist instead.

Then, without warning, he was pulling her completely onto his lap, and before she could react, his hands were everywhere–tearing at her shirt buttons, the cold snap of fasteners mingling with their shared heat. He pulled the thin material down past her shoulders, his mouth trailing fire across her collarbone, her shoulder, the sensitive skin of her arm as his fingers unhooked her worn brassiere.

Marie shivered, not from cold this time, as the winter air hit her bare skin. Jack pulled her closer, his mouth catching her nipple between his teeth and tongue, a sharp, delicious torture that made her arch against him. Her fingers dug into his shoulders through the layers of his jacket and shirt, pressing him closer as his erection pushed relentlessly against her hip.

His hand slid down the front of her wool skirt, fingers clumsy with unwieldy clothing and urgency, searching. Marie instinctively spread her legs slightly, offering herself, her gasp muffled against his ear. Jack found the warmth there, pressing hard with slow circles that sent jolts of sensation straight to her core, combined with the relentless friction of his hand. She ground her hips against it, seeking more, needing pressure.

Marie's fingers fumbled with the stiff fly buttons, cold metal slipping under her touch. A thick ridge strained, undeniably. Her knuckles brushed the hard length through the fabric.

His trousers gaping open, his arms wrapped tightly around her as Marie straddled him, her lips glued to his. He lifted her slightly, positioned himself, until the warm, hard edge of his arousal pressed against her. He held her waist, his eyes locked on hers, asking again, silently pleading, almost afraid of the answer.

Marie nodded once, her eyes wide, luminous black pools in the failing light. Desperation, loneliness, and a fierce, desperate hope warred with the chill mass of the world pressing in. She lifted herself, bracing on his shoulders, and lowered herself onto him.

The burn was immense, sharp, intrusive, cutting through the chill as she settled down, taking him completely inside. A cry escaped her, breathless, sharp. Jack closed his eyes, his jaw tightening, hands clamping onto her hips, stilling her movement. Pressed together, sharing the warmth of a single, frantic heartbeat, the world was just the cold of the ground beneath her, the heat of him inside her, and the world trembling, honey-colored lights flickering weakly from the dimly lit fireplace.