Chapter 14 GIDEON
I'd been angry before. War angry. Pilot angry. Losing-my-brothers angry.
But none of that held a candle to the fury I felt when Inga spat those words at me through the gate.
I'll never sleep with you. I'll never have sex with you.
Like that's what I wanted.
Well, you do, my conscience nagged.
That wasn't the point, and that wasn't why I was doing these things.
Like I was some bastard lined up at her door with ration cards and demands. No, you're not that guy, I assured myself.
I'd never been insulted like that, not even by Germans during the war, and hell, I'd dropped bombs on them. My blood had gone white-hot. My vision had tunneled, a growl had crawled up my throat, and if there hadn't been a gate between us, I don't know what I would've done.
Probably kissed her and proved her right.
It had taken some time, but eventually I cooled off. Enough for the first rational thoughts to enter my head. Slowly, the truth started to creep in. She doesn't know you, that much was true.
I swooped in like some kind of hero, dragon shifter, soldier, protector, whatever the hell I thought I was, and expected her to just… fall? Trust me? Because I brought food? Because I fixed a few planks of wood? Because I scared off some kids?
Christ.
I'd walked her home twice. Maybe three times if I counted the alley night. But every time had ended with me playing the big savior. Big shoulders. Big bravery. Big ego.
Not once did I give her space to actually know me. Not Gideon the man.
Just Gideon the rescuer. So whose fault was her misunderstanding?
Mine.
That truth had sat like a stone in my stomach. Made it impossible not to think about the other parts of what she'd said: What is the price I'll have to pay?
The idea that she'd thought I'd demand her body—that I'd take everything she had left—It hollowed me out.
The dragon went silent. Even he didn't know how to answer that.
So instead of sulking or drinking myself numb with Carter, I'd done what I'd been doing all week.
I went to see the kids. When I showed up with another bundle—bread, fruit, powdered milk, a mess-hall sandwich—Klaus's eyes lit up.
Axel nodded once, his version of thanks.
Their faith in me felt like a weight and a blessing.
That night, while the boys sat cross-legged on the rug—I still couldn't believe we'd gotten a rug into that ruin—I crouched and asked, slowly, "Klaus—Inga. Lieblingsblumen? Favorite flowers?"
Klaus blinked.
Axel blinked.
They exchanged confused glances.
"Blumen?" I repeated, miming holding a bouquet.
Klaus furrowed his brows. "Blumen? Wofür?"
Axel translated in his shy half-English. "Why… flowers?"
It hit me then. There weren't many flowers left in Berlin. The city had burned, starved, frozen. Nature had barely kept up. Flowers were one of the luxuries no one had the right to expect.
And still, I wanted to bring her some. I swallowed. "Eh… never mind."
This morning, I couldn't sit still. I paced. I shaved twice because I botched the first one. I pulled on civilian clothes—jeans, a faded shirt, a jacket that wasn't military issue—and hoped I looked less like a flying uniform and more like a man.
Then I went to find flowers. It took three hours and a long walk to the French sector. I paid too much. I didn't care. The bouquet wasn't big, just a handful of wilted daisies, two pale roses, and a sprig of something green, but it was all the city had.
By noon, my palms were sweating around the stems. When I reached her ruin, I hesitated. My heart kicked like it wanted out of my chest. I knocked on the makeshift door. I felt more anxious than I had flying over Germany dropping bombs.
A rustle.
A pause.
Then she opened it.
Saw me and froze.
Her eyes—brown like forest earth—went wide, flicking from my face to the flowers and back again. Her lips parted slightly. She didn't breathe for a full three seconds. I swallowed. Hard.
"I'm sorry," I said.
Two words. Not enough. But they were everything I had. She didn't take the flowers, but she didn't slam the door or scream at me like last night.
Progress?
She just stared.
I saw the war on her face, the mistrust, the exhaustion, the brittle strength.
The hope she tried to crush before I could see it.
Every wound from the last few years lived in her eyes.
I held the bouquet out a little more, like a shield, like a peace offering.
"Please. Let me buy you lunch. Let me explain. Let me… fix what I broke."
She closed her eyes briefly, like she was fighting herself. When she opened them again, they shone strangely.
"And why," she whispered, voice trembling despite her stubborn posture, "would I do that?"
I breathed in, then answered honestly, "Because I would really, really like to get to know you, and I would really like for you to know me too."
Silence.
A long, tight silence.
Her gaze dropped to the flowers. Her throat worked. Her fingers twitched—just barely—toward the bouquet. Then she looked back up, and her voice came out hoarse, "You're… impossible."
I didn't dare grin, but I smiled, "Probably."
She let out a breath that trembled at the end. Then—slowly, cautiously, like approaching a wounded animal—she reached for the flowers. Her fingers brushed mine. Sparks ignited. Real, physical sparks that shot up my arm. She felt it too—her flush told on her, so did her widening eyes.
"Lunch," she whispered, almost to herself. "We can… talk."
Relief nearly knocked me off my feet. I held out my hand, careful not to let it appear too eager or, God forbid, grabby. "Come with me?"
She hesitated, but only for a few seconds. Before she took my hand, though, she remembered. "Hold on, the flowers."
I waited at the threshold, like I had never entered her apartment before, until I heard the boys giggle. Of course, they had stood right there, watching. I made a face at them, and they giggled some more.
"Oh, for crying out loud, Gideon, come on in," Inga called.
The boys giggled even harder as they watched me take one measured, careful step after another as I entered. I ducked under the low beam and stepped fully into the room, the boys' eyes bright with mischief as if I'd just walked into a sacred place where grown men didn't belong. Maybe I didn't.
Inga moved across the patched floorboards with a strange combination of grace and weariness, the flowers cradled in her hands as if they were made of spun sugar and breath.
She reached the little makeshift table—once a cabinet, now missing a door—and picked up an old tin can.
Someone had scrubbed it clean ages ago. The label was long gone.
She dipped it into the metal bucket beside the wall.
I frowned. The water inside was clear. Cold.
Fresh. That meant she'd fetched it… from the pump halfway down the street, because there wasn't any running water here.
She had carried it through the rubble. Up a slope of broken masonry and shattered stairwells.
Every day. Probably twice a day. For months—no, years.
No wonder she was skittish. No wonder she mistrusted kindness. No wonder she'd assumed I wanted something in exchange. This city had taken a girl who deserved a soft, safe home and turned her into a warrior.
She filled the tin halfway, testing the weight, then lowered the flowers into it. They sagged a little, but their color brightened against the dull metal.
She turned and caught me watching. Her chin lifted—pride reasserting itself like a shield—but her eyes… her eyes softened, just a fraction.
"You can stop staring," she murmured. "It's just water."
Just water. Just a tin. Just a girl surviving in a place that should have killed her.
But to me, it felt like watching her light a candle in the ruins.
I didn't move closer, not yet. The boys were still watching, whispering to each other in rapid-fire German, and Inga's cheeks warmed as she shot them a warning glare.
They straightened instantly, the way kids do when they don't want to ruin a grown-up's fragile mood.
She brushed her palms against her skirt and finally approached me again. I couldn't look away. Couldn't breathe right. Couldn't pretend a single thing about this woman left me unaffected.
"I really am sorry," I said quietly. "For last night… for everything."
"Me too." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "And thank you. For the flowers."
The words sounded like they cost her something, not money, but vulnerability. I tucked that away into the place inside me I didn't let anyone near. The place she'd started to carve space into. She glanced toward the boys. "Klaus, Axel. Behave. I'll be back soon."
Axel nodded like this was the most serious mission of his life. Klaus beamed as if he were sending his sister off to a dance.
Then she stepped toward me. Right up to me. Close enough that I could smell the faint scent of the soap I'd brought her a few days ago. Close enough I could see the freckles across her nose I hadn't noticed before. Close enough that if I leaned forward an inch—
No.
Not yet.
Not now.
"Ready?" I asked.
She didn't take my hand this time. But she didn't pull away either when I took hers.
"I suppose," she tried—and failed—not to sound flustered.
I pushed the door's makeshift panel aside and held it for her as she stepped out into the daylight.
Right then, right in that moment, watching her square her shoulders against the world outside, I made myself a quiet promise: I would find out when someone had last done something kind for her.
I would learn everything she didn't want to say.
Every scar she hid behind sharp words. Every fear she carried alone. Every dream she'd buried under rubble.
I hadn't been lying. I really did want to get to know her. And God help me,
I wanted her to know me, too.
She turned back, catching me staring again, and her lips twitched. "Gideon," she said softly, a hint of warning, a hint of something else.
"Don't make me regret this."
I swallowed. "I won't," I said, and meant it more than anything I'd meant in a long, long time.
"Lunch?" she asked.
"Lunch," I said.
And together—awkward, hopeful, terrified—we walked out into the fragile daylight.