#shatteredportrait

            ❛   The man who was threatening you----------   ❜  Amber gaze lifts from the newspaper he clutches between his fingers, to focus upon the lady across from him. There’s a moment where he pauses, only to fold the newspaper and place it upon the table.

    His eyes narrowed at the sight of the woman. He'd seen her someplace before.     He knew he had. At least he thought so.  Christ, it would be just his luck if he’d     accidentally run  into one of his mother’s socialite friends  --  but it was too late.     Steff knew  he’d probably  been  seen already. Shit.  A smile that was less than      sincere spread across his face. 

‘When do you think           they’ll be sending you home?’       No, that isn’t regret in his tone, or some disappointment that she hadn’t been able to stay longer.  It’s anxiety. Eagerness to get her safely back to the states and away from here. The sooner she goes home, the better. 

let me proclaim my love!  💕  ( always accepting !! )

{;;CORRESPONDENCE

status: accepting 

@shatteredportrait

♋  my muse fixing your muse something to eat

The sizzle of the      pan reminds him of his mother’s house. It’s the music that so often filled her own home, accompanied by the wafting aromas of olive oil and butter, garlic and and spices. It’s warm, and it’s home, and it’s delicious, and he isn’t ashamed to admit that his artwork on the stove is making his own mouth water.      Seasoned beef and vegetables, mushrooms and green onions, not only does it sing, but he can already taste it on the tip of his tongue, tangy and sweet flavors mixing with savory. She’ll enjoy this, he’s sure.      He casts a glance over his shoulder, smile eager and bright, back-lit by the bulb over the stove, the angles of his face cast into jovial shadow.           ‘Hope you’re hungry,’ he says, scooping some of his latest culinary creation onto a couple of china plates and garnishing them both with one of his mother’s freshly baked rolls.           ‘This is one of Mamma’s old recipes. Thought it sounded like something you’d like.’ 

        ❛ e r i c. . .you can call me eric ❜

He’s tired. They       all are, granted, but for the moment he’s finding it difficult to see past the end of his own nose. He won’t think too hard on it, lest he wind up feeling guilty on top of tired.       He’s still got a company to look after, and they seem to cause more trouble when the USO brings girls in than they do on the battlefield. Despite the tired, despite the wracking cough that sets his chest on fire and the fever that won’t let him top shaking, he knows he’s still got to keep alert. Keep an eye out.       They’d swarmed her as soon as her show’d ended, and he’d almost wanted to take her by the arm and rush her away before they could. But where would he have taken her? She seems at ease, or as at ease as she can be at the epicenter of a hurricane of paratroopers all trying to get an eye full and vying for her attention.       But there’s something in the glance she casts in his direction that speaks of a deep-seated unease he can’t say he doesn’t entirely understand.       So he shoves away from the wall, away from the dark corner in which he’s ensconced himself, and he starts shifting through the crowd, clapping men on the shoulders and steering them back and away saying over and over again, ‘Alright, alright. Let Miss Walker alone. Back to your post.’       It’s only his reputation and his quiet authority that sees them following orders, and only then with no small amount of complaining and grumbling.       But they’re soldiers, and soldiers will grumble, and it’s almost too soon he’s left standing alone on a hastily constructed platform with Diana Walker. Pride of Hollywood and America’s new ideal.       If he said his heart didn’t quicken just a little, he’d be lying.            ‘You alright, Miss? I’m, ah, sorry about them. They’re good men, but... Sometimes I think they’ve forgotten what civilization looks like.’