Disclaimer: Hetalia belongs to Hidekazu Himaruya.

March, 1919, London

.

Leaving the station, with the train retreating with a shrill whistle, Lukas took in a deep breath of London air. Taking in his surroundings, Lukas couldn't quite believe that barely anything had changed in the past four years, since he had left that very station in 1915. Shrugging his bag strap further up his shoulder, he ventured off onto the footpath, watching some of the other soldiers parting ways and heading home.

Home for Lukas wasn't too far from the station, but since it was a rather calm day—though a bit chilly—he decided to go for a walk, to take in London after being away from it for so long. It was amazing how much he had missed the place, missed the bustling people going to and fro, missed the colours of the autumn, the crispness of the air… yet he missed nothing and no one more than Maren.

While he had hoped that her trip back home had been a safe one with no complications, Lukas had dreadfully pined for her. Yet despite being disappointed that she hadn't been with him—as Maren or Matthias—Lukas was glad that she had been out of harm's way. Those three years they had been apart had been slow and agonising: the battles had been long and bloody, he had seen more of his comrades die than survive, and he had almost been shot at least twenty times throughout it all.

As he ambled down the main street, Lukas thought about just how lucky he was to have survived it all. He was exhausted, heartbroken and lonely, but he was alive. He felt more alive, walking in the afternoon in London, with the sun beating down on his face, than he had felt for the past three years. His hand drifted to his left breast pocket, feeling the bumps of his lucky charm. After all this time, Lukas still had Maren's swan close to his heart, taking it out every night to kiss its head and run his fingertips over it.

But it, unlike him, had survived the war unscathed.

The memory burned in his mind: a fiery and desperate battle in the mud, with no ammunition, just a rifle and a bayonet; a tussle for dominance ended up being a slash to the stomach for Lukas and a stab in the heart for his German opponent. All that remained of that fight was a long, dark red, jagged scar that ran from Lukas' bottom rib on his right side, all the way across to the top of his left hipbone. He had been lucky enough that the wound itself had not been too deep for it to kill him or ruin his organs.

Shaking his head, Lukas ran his palms down the front of his uniform and started walking towards the city centre. For the first time since 1915, Lukas was glad to be home.

But before heading home, Lukas had the desire to familiarise himself with the beauty of London once more, to get rid of the horrible memories of the war, of the trenches and the craters the bombs had left behind, to get rid of the stench of gunpowder and mud that seemed to reside in his nostrils.

Lukas strolled around London for several hours. He went into the many parks the city had to offer, many of them still covered with a thin layer of snow, passed by many shops that hadn't been there before the war, breathed in the fresh, crisp air and allowed himself to let loose a bit. He had no one to give him orders anymore… no more generals, no more captains, no more majors. The war was over. He was free. His mind was clear.

However, the citizens of London didn't want Lukas to, it seemed, forget what he had been through. The people he passed stared at him, their eyes sorrowful and their expressions filled with a silent mourning. There were people who took in his uniform and merely gaped, as if unable to believe that there were people who had survived the war, who were home. Lukas had gotten a surprise when he had been approached by a group of children—a mixture of both girls and boys, no older than seven years old—who came up to him and saluted him wonkily. Having broken a little smile, Lukas patted their heads and saluted them back.

It's odd to be back in this normalcy, he thought as he turned towards the path leading to Björnstad House. There are still people here. Still there are the trees and the air. The buildings and the language of us Brits. Yet, why does it feel so… foreign?

Looking ahead, Lukas took in the path. It was the path he had walked up and down many times through the years. It was the path that, at this point, was leading him home. It was bordered by huge, thick trunks of oaks on either side of the gravelled path, the branches dotted with patches of snow. Coming to a pause in the middle, Lukas tilted his head backwards to see the height of the oaks around him. It had been too long since he had last seen a tree, let alone one with greenery. All the trees he had seen on the frontlines had been blackened, stripped bare of its jaded beauty, its foliage which rose majestically to the sky. Gazing at the tops of the oaks, Lukas could see that they were only just starting to bloom, what with the beginning of spring in the air. Despite its nakedness and white blanket, Lukas thought it was so incredibly beautiful, so close to home that he felt some heavy weight on his chest lift.

Moving forward again, Lukas kept his eyes focused on the trees' branches, its budding leaves. They sung to the heavens, their thin fingers reaching towards the sky, almost touching the orange clouds that drifted past. He sighed deeply, contently, and smiled softly.

This is paradise.

Only, Lukas really should have looked where he was going because the next thing he knew, he had crashed into someone. In an instance of surprise more so than an actual crash, it caused them and himself to fall onto the snowy ground, their possessions dropping around them in the process. Apologising profusely, Lukas started picking up the fallen items around their forms—the person had a basket, into which they returned their possessions—and he froze when he saw the stranger pick up his swan. Clearly it had fallen out of his pocket in their moment of collision, and Lukas watched as they brought the wooden animal to their face.

Lukas followed their movement, and his eyes landed on the face of the stranger, allowing him to take them in fully. It was a woman, taller than he was, even when kneeling, with blonde hair that had been twirled into a bun. There were thousands of freckles lining her cheeks—much like Maren's, Lukas recalled—and her eyes were so blue that Lukas found it hard to think. They were so much like Maren's that he couldn't believe how similar they were. He wondered if it was her. But no… it couldn't have been. His Maren had short hair, was boisterous and humorous, wore a uniform, pants and thick boots—not like this woman, not a goddamn dark green dress, heeled boots, or black, feminine gloves, or a necklace and earrings.

Yet… as she tore her gaze away from the swan to Lukas' face, he heard her breath hitch and saw her eyes widen considerably. Putting the rest of her items back in the basket, she left it sitting on the ground as she slowly stood up. Lukas stood up with her after making sure his bag was by his feet, and held out his hand for the swan, a silent plea for it to be returned.

What he heard—and it was the last thing he expected to hear—was a strangled gasp and a soft whisper of, 'Oh god… it's you. Isn't it… Lukas?'

Lukas frowned deeply, very confused, and the woman laughed breathlessly, a huge smile forming on her face and a few tears falling down her cheeks making Lukas alarmed at her reaction. But it was the smile—that bloody smile that made everything around him slow down, simply from the sheer beauty it retained—that made him realise exactly who he was staring at, because only one person had a smile like hers.

His jaw dropped in shock. 'M-Maren?'

It took her a split second to let out an incredulous sound and to lunge forward in order to hold Lukas against her. Lukas, for the first time in a very long while, didn't hesitate to embrace her back, squeezing her form tightly. She smelled amazing, like cinnamon, like a bakery, like home, and he held the back of her head as he pressed his face into her shoulder. Lukas could feel her sobbing and chuckling, whispering, 'Oh god, it is you! Oh god… my darling…'

They pulled away from each other momentarily, and Lukas saw Maren's face light up with so much joy that he couldn't help but smile, genuinely smile, when he saw it. She looked older, no longer baby-faced as she had been back when he had last seen her, and she had grown taller. There was a maturity to her and she glowed. Lukas hadn't seen such a glow since the war broke out.

Maren's hands found his jaw and she shook her head, muttering 'Oh, thank god… You survived… Oh my god, you're home!' She laughed, and the sound sent ripples through Lukas' body. 'You're home…'

Heading into another embrace, Lukas allowed himself to run his fingers over the fine strands of Maren's golden hair, to draw circles on her back, to press kisses through her dress on her shoulder… Out of everything he had seen that day, Maren was by far the best. He felt more at home in her arms than he had stepping off the train, more than he had walking down that wooded path. He savoured the moment, letting his eyes close as the scent of Maren overwhelmed him.

I was wrong. This is paradise. She's my paradise.

A moment later, they parted once again, only for Maren to whisper, 'Welcome home, Lukas.'

Lukas smiled at her, a content, closed-lip one. 'It's good to be home.' And it was.

Maren chuckled and her eyes flicked down to the swan that was still in her palm. 'You kept it,' she said to him, wiping away the few tears that bordered her chin. 'All these years, and you still have it.'

'Of course.' Lukas took it from her hand, kissed its head and gazed at her as he continued with, 'My lucky charm from my damsel in shining armour. It served its purpose well.' Placing it back into his pocket, Lukas grabbed both of Maren's hands in his and stroked the backs of them with his thumbs. 'It brought me home… to you.'

The smile on Maren's lips only grew larger, her eyes sparkling. She opened her mouth to reply, but was interrupted when someone nearby spoke.

'Good evening, Miss Maren.'

Turning his head to the voice, Lukas saw a small, elderly woman walking down the path towards them. She had a secret smile on her face, her crinkled eyes covered by the shade of her hat. Lukas watched as Maren locked onto her and nodded hurriedly, agreeing with her statement it seemed. 'Yes, Mrs Potts. It is a good evening indeed.' As the old Mrs Potts went past them, Maren paused, frowning deeply for several moments. Then her eyes blew wide open and she hissed out a, 'Oh shit,' and went after the woman.

'Mrs Potts, wait!'

Lukas watched, baffled, as Maren caught up to the old woman—who had made some distance, despite her age—and started talking to her, her voice quiet and hands animatedly moving around. Lukas struggled to hear her, but he was surprised to see her being a little afraid and on the verge of desperation. How odd… Maren spoke a little louder, and Lukas heard her saying, 'Not a word to anyone, please… I beg you, Mrs Potts,' and Mrs Potts nodded gently as she took Maren's hands. They conversed for a while longer, Lukas still unsure of what exactly they were conversing about; he found himself blushing when the one thing he did hear was, 'He's a handsome man, Miss Maren—and a soldier to boot!'

They exchanged farewells, going their separate ways, and Maren returned to Lukas. Her cheerful expression had been replaced with a serious one, one so serious that Lukas became rather concerned.

'Lukas… I know this is sudden, but I need to head home—and quickly.'

Bending down to her basket, she rummaged through it, pulling out a notepad and a pen. She jotted something down on the page, ripped it out and pressed it into Lukas' palm.

'Meet me at this address this coming Friday at noon,' she told him, her tone quiet and firm. 'Tell no one, this is essential. I hate to be abrupt, but I really must get home. I'm afraid I have a bit of a curfew… But I will explain everything there, yes? We can talk and catch up properly. We have three years to go through, after all…'

Feeling a bit disappointed at the fact that they were parting so soon, Lukas nevertheless nodded, promising her that he'll be there. Why wouldn't he be? Maren relaxed slightly, picking up her basket and kissing Lukas' cheek. She told him a soft good evening, see you next Friday, and started heading off. But Lukas didn't let her leave him that easily; he gripped her arm and brought her back to him.

'You missed,' was all he said to her before closing the distance between them and kissing her properly. He heard the basket drop onto the ground again and he felt Maren's hands frame his face as she returned the kiss firmly, passionately, lovingly. She moved away quickly, sighing before telling him, 'I really must go. But Friday, Lukas… I'll see you Friday.'

'I'll be there.' He smiled and tucked a piece of loose hair behind her ear. 'I love you.'

An odd expression passed over Maren's face, one which Lukas couldn't decipher. But the next thing he knew was that he was being pulled forward by his cheeks and being kissed again.

'I love you,' Maren said, then she kissed him again. 'I love you.' Once more she kissed him. 'I love you.' One more. 'And don't let anything anyone says to you or what you hear tell you otherwise. I love you, and only you, Lukas Bondevik—don't you forget it.'

Nothing more is said between them as Maren takes her leave, grasping her basket and hurrying down the path. Lukas is left dumbfounded as he watches her go—but he grins hugely and covers his mouth with his hand, letting out a quiet, 'YES!'

He had found her.

It had taken him three years, but he had found her again. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

But little did Lukas know just exactly what had occurred in those three years they had been apart.

No idea at all.

.

Once he could no longer see Maren's retreating figure, Lukas took the rest of the path towards home. He realised now that the closer he got, the more nervous he became. To think that it had been four years since he had seen his parents… It was unimaginable to think what they had been through. While Lukas was ready to face whatever argument his parents threw at him for running away and being away from home for so long, he also hoped that they understood why he had left, finally understood his reasons and his wishes of not wanting to marry for the sake of inheritance. There was more to marriage than just money, as Lukas had asserted many times during many arguments.

Perhaps he was being romantic, or just "unaware" of the way life worked, but Lukas didn't want to believe that inheritance and money were the most important things when it came to marriage. Perhaps it was a new order of thought he was pursuing, but Lukas preferred the idea of being married to someone he loved, with or without money, than to marry a stranger just for the sake of keeping the bloodline going.

Sighing delicately through his nose, Lukas reached the end of the path after about twenty minutes. In the distance, amongst a backdrop of wooded green, away from the bustling, crowded city centre of London, he saw the outline of the Bondevik manor, tall and grand, old yet utterly breathtaking. The building seemed to go on forever, the endless windows lining the brickwork flaming from the sunset; their luscious garden remained as beautiful as ever, roses and poppies, bluebells and violets beginning to bud from the taste of spring in the air; the gravel road leading to the front door shone a pale cream, the crystals in the stones glimmering from the remaining sunlight.

Lukas had missed the place. Nothing had changed, not a single thing, and Lukas found himself feeling nostalgic.

Has it really been four years? He shook his head in incredulity. I wonder if everyone is still here… It will be nice to see some old, familiar faces.

Walking faster, Lukas wasted not a single second. He travelled quickly up the gravelled trail until he was standing in front of the huge oak entrance, with its gleaming handles and varnished coat. Swallowing his nervousness down into the pits of his stomach—or at least, as far down as he could make it go—Lukas raised his fist. He hesitated for a brief moment; he steeled himself and knocked twice. Stepping back a bit, Lukas waited.

It was only a minute or so that passed when there was the click of the door opening. The very sound went through Lukas, and suddenly he felt like an outsider—but it was only for a solitary instant for when he saw the withered, somewhat hunched butler of the Bondevik manor, a figure that had been with him since his infancy, a massive weight was removed from his shoulders.

'How can I help you—?' The butler, at the sight of Lukas, gasped loudly, his jaw dropping in shock and his question dying on his tongue.

Lukas gently smiled. 'Hello, Baxter.'

Baxter laughed disbelievingly, and Lukas could see that the poor man was unsure of whether or not to hug Lukas, to welcome him home in a physical manner. Lukas answered for him, engulfing the old man into a tight embrace—and he, no doubt, was most likely astounded at the action, for Lukas was known to be one of the least affectionate people in their circle of associates—and Baxter hugged him back just as hard.

'Good God Almighty! I can't believe it…' Baxter removed himself from his young master, his thin lips stretching to his ears. 'Master Lukas… you're home!'

Lukas huffed, but he sent Baxter a smile of his own regardless. 'How many times, Baxter? None of the master business—just Lukas.' He cleared his throat. 'Are my parents home?'

'Yes, they're in the drawing room.' Baxter raised his eyebrows. 'Shall I get them for you?'

Walking into the grand hallway, Lukas' eyes roved over the shiny floor, the mahogany rail of the massive staircase that lead to the upper floors, the vases of flowers—from their garden, of course—sitting on the chests of drawers that lined the sides of the vast place and the archways that lead deeper into the manor. Lukas breathed in the smell of the place.

Then he grinned inwardly at the thought of sweeping Maren into this hall, of showing her around the manor and introducing her to his parents.

The true love of his life…

Imagine…

One day I will make that a reality.

Realising suddenly that Baxter's question had gone unanswered, he pondered on the thought for a moment before telling him to send his parents to the library, emphasising to not tell them of his arrival. Baxter nodded and went off to fetch the Lord and Lady of the manor, but not before turning around and saying wistfully, 'Lukas Bondevik… I'd never thought I'd live long enough to see you again.' He ran up the stairs towards the drawing room, whistling cheerfully.

Baxter was by no means a young man—he was rather old, but Lukas found himself thinking how much younger the butler looked then, like a teenager, running up the stairs with a smile to rival the brightness of the sun.

Lukas made his own way up the stairs, going towards the library. He stopped by his bedroom, dropping his bags in there. As he walked, Lukas took in his home. Nothing had changed. The walls were still full of paintings, the rooms with their sapphire curtains and white, lace-trimmed sheets, the perfume of lavender wafting through the house's entirety, the deep purple carpets cast along the floors on each floor and the staircase…

But there was a stillness to the house that hadn't been there when he had left.

The halls were usually bustling with servants, rushing to and fro, morning to evening. There was noise, either from the kitchens downstairs in the servant's quarters or in the rooms as the daily cleaning began. But silence was the only thing that Lukas heard. The collar of his uniform appeared to choke him, strangle him as compensation of the loss of life in the house. Then a horrible thought wandered into his mind, of whether some of the younger men—the valets, the footmen, the stable boys—had been sent off to war in the later years and had died on the front.

Lukas was quick to shove that idea away as he entered the library. The familiar smell of books and aged paper, that musky aroma of loved and adored pages, hit Lukas full force. He unconsciously made his way over to his favourite shelf, to the corner where he had spent the majority of his childhood absorbed in the worlds of fiction, drama and romance. His long fingers traced the thick, leathery spines of large volumes of knowledge, of the creased covers of his favourite novels. His digits automatically found Lukas' first love, and he pulled out the copy of Brontë's Wuthering Heights. Slipping his thumb in between the pages, Lukas opened to a random chapter, his eyes drinking in Cathy and Heathcliff. What I'd give to come back to these days, he thought, smiling at the memories of ten-year-old him, lost in his own little world with Cathy and Heathcliff.

But Lukas didn't have much to reminisce as much as he would have liked to for the voices of his parents and Baxter could be heard from the corridor.

'What is the meaning of this, Baxter?' his mother groused. 'Would you please just tell us what is going on?'

'Please, my Lady—I was told to remain discreet.'

'There better be a good explanation for this, Baxter.'

'I assure you, my Lord… It is perhaps the greatest thing to have occurred.'

Lukas heard the door open and he didn't turn around straightaway—for he had his back to them. He heard them enter, as well as the startled, 'Oh!' from his mother.

'Good evening, sir!' his father greets loudly. 'Welcome to Björnstad House—is there anything we can help you with?'

Taking in a deep breath, Lukas braced himself. Just hearing the voices of his parents made his throat constrict painfully. As much as they had annoyed him in the past, Lukas had missed his mother and father terribly.

'No, absolutely nothing…' he replies, shutting Wuthering Heights with a soft snap, 'Father.'

Placing the book back on the shelf and turning around to face his parents fully, the look of shock on their faces made something inside of him break. Just as the house hadn't changed, his parents hadn't either: his father was still strong in the shoulders, still towered over his small and wiry wife, who stared at Lukas with wide, blue eyes. The war had aged them, that fact couldn't be avoided, but they were still the same as Lukas remembered them when he had run away.

Perhaps it was seeing them that made Lukas fully register the amount of time that had passed: it had been four years since he had left, since he had met Maren on the front, since he had last smelt all those books in the library, since he had seen Baxter and his parents. The brunt of it all hit him like a bomb, and he couldn't help the tearful smile that formed on his face when his parents rushed forward and embraced their son; in his mother's case, she sobbed into his neck, and in his father's, he pressed kisses into his hair.

'Oh god! My baby…' Lukas' mother cried, clutching onto him as if he was the last thing on Earth worth of any value. 'My darling boy… you're home!'

'Where have you been?' The weakness of his father's voice surprised Lukas a bit; his father was a man of authority, of boisterousness and loudness, of confidence and friendliness. 'It's been almost four years, Lukas…'

They parted from their holds and Lukas watched as his father's eyes trailed over his uniform, taking in the olive clothing with a look of astonishment.

'You joined the army…'

'I did.' Lukas regained his composure and sniffed. 'I did the moment I ran.'

'But how?' His mother shakes her head in disbelief; her hands did not move from Lukas' arms. 'You were sixteen…' A loud gasp was ripped from her throat as realisation dawned upon her. 'You didn't.'

'I did.'

'Lukas Bondevik, that is illegal!'

'And yet here I am.'

Nothing more was said on the topic, especially once Lukas' mother pulled him into another embrace, whispering in his ear how much she had missed him, how stupid he was for leaving and how glad she was that he was home.

Yes… he was home.

.

Sitting at the dining table, Lukas let out a deep breath. Dinner had been served, though conversation was minimal, making it a relatively quiet affair. It might have been due to Lukas and his parents having spent an hour and a half talking in the library, catching up on the past four years. Lukas had been met with an apology regarding the forcing of marriage upon him, something that he hadn't expected hear at all. He had been grateful and was relieved that the drama had ended.

About an hour before dinner, Lukas had freshened up, taking a moment to familiarise himself with Björnstad House once more. He had hung up his uniform—hopefully never to be worn again… one war had been more than enough—and changed into his dinner suit. But when he had left his room to head down to diner, Lukas had backtracked and grabbed the swan from the pocket of his uniform and placed it, instead, in the breast-pocket of his dinner jacket. Then he had shut the wardrobe doors, sealing away his uniform.

'Lukas, darling, you're not eating.'

Gazing at his mother, Lukas sent her a calm smile. He told her that he didn't eat much these days, as he couldn't remember the last time he had had a meal this rich or filling. It would take him a while to get accustomed to it again, and he told her not to worry. 'This is normal,' he said wisely. 'Especially after all the rations we had get used to.'

His mother merely stared at him sadly. Before she could say anything, however, when there was a timid knock on the dining room door. Opening with a slight creak, their kitchen maid, Sally, entered the room. Sally was a small girl, mousey with striking grey eyes that dug into someone's soul—or that was how Lukas described it. Sally was a long-time favourite of Lukas', and he had been sad to leave her the most when he had run away.

'Ah, Sally!' Lukas' mother smiled tenderly at the young girl—who was younger than Lukas by a year. 'Do you bring good news?'

'Yes and no, my Lady,' Sally whispered. She coughed lightly and said a bit louder, 'Lord Hexley is still doing the same thing, but I did see Lady Hexley looking… much chipper today, my Lady. She seemed very happy. There was a smile on her face and everything!'

'Really? How odd…'

Lukas frowned at his mother in confusion. What on earth are they talking about? Hexley? Lady Hexley? But the conversation became lost when Sally, seeing Lukas sitting in his seat, gasped.

'Lukas!' she exclaimed. 'Oh Lord—I had no idea you were home!'

'Hello, Sally, my dear,' Lukas greeted her, standing up and allowing the shorter girl to hug him.

If one were to enter the Bondevik manor at that moment, they would have been in shock over what Lukas and Sally were doing. But the Bondeviks were different to the other English families, always had been. They didn't care what anyone said—they treated their staff as equals. Of course, there was no escaping the social barrier, but when it came to formalities, it wasn't a huge deal in the Bondevik household, hence the open affection between Lukas and Sally, and the first-name terms.

After welcoming Lukas home, Sally was kidnapped by his mother, and the pair became engrossed in deep conversation. Lukas watched them curiously, glancing at his father to see if he would provide him with an answer. When no such answer arrived, Lukas waited until Sally curtsied cutely and left the room, letting Lukas to stare at his mother.

'Mother?' At her hum, Lukas set down his cutlery and gazed seriously at her. 'Who are these Hexleys? Why are you interested in them?'

Much to his amazement, his mother's face fell. She let out a tired sigh and fiddled with her fingers as her eyes landed on her plate. Lukas became more and more curious about it all.

'Consider it… a duty of sorts, Lukas,' she began, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. 'Lord Hexley and his family are ruthless mongrels. They consider themselves the "cream of the crop"—nasty bunch they are. There are rumours that Lord Hexley is a… well, needless to say, he beats his wife. They haven't been married long—about three years. Poor girl had been unwillingly married to the man. Some kind of punishment according to her family. I've been sending Sally to look out for her on Fridays, to see how she is, whether or not she has a new bruise somewhere—it's the only day she's allowed out of the house! It's a prison for her, that house, that family.'

Lukas' mother frowned deeply, irritation moulding around her features. She locked eyes with her son.

'If you were still around, I would have married her to you, just to save her from the horror of that manor. But then I realised I would have done the same thing as them to you. We can only pray that she survives long enough to have enough evidence to convict the monster.

'As to why I'm interested in her… I'm a mother and a woman, Lukas.' Lukas gaped at her as her expression formed into one of anger. 'No woman, no matter how horrible they are—not that I'm saying Lady Hexley is—deserves to be beaten to the point of madness.'

Nothing more is said on the subject and dinner resumes. Lukas took a moment to process everything he had just heard, and for some reason, an uncomfortable feeling formed in his stomach.

.

The week passed by faster than Lukas had anticipated.

He had caught up with all the household staff—namely Sally—during that time and was quick to get back into routine. Since the war was over, Lukas found no need to rise at the crack of dawn, nor to be constantly alert for bombshells or shrapnel, or enemy snipers lurking nearby. The first couple of nights back had been restless for him, expecting every five minutes to be thrust back into war, back into the trenches of France. Lukas had woken up in cold sweats and with his friends' names on his tongue, his breathing short and dread building up inside of him. When he realised that he was, in fact, in his own bed, in London, he relaxed, but only slightly.

It was only the thought of seeing Maren again that put him off the edge—and the surprising letter he had received from Ludwig Beilschmidt on the Wednesday. His mother's reaction had been priceless when she had seen where it had come from, but Lukas hadn't elaborated as to why he had a German writing him letters. Instead, he had taken the letter to his room and read it, discovering that both he and Gilbert had survived the war. While they were both healthy and uninjured, Gilbert was suffering from terrible nightmares, and Ludwig had been pleaded by Elizabeta to come and help her take care of him. He promised to keep in touch with Lukas if he so wished, and Lukas had felt much happier that day. He was glad to know that someone had survived.

But it was Friday. Fingering the paper she had given him the previous week, Lukas stood in front of the house of which the address referred. It was a decent sized house, a cottage more than anything else, white and brown in colour. It had a picket fence at the front and small rose shrubs behind them, right underneath the windows. To Lukas, the house seemed an odd place to meet; he had knocked on the door upon arrival, just a bit before noon, expecting this to be the house in which Maren lived in. When there had been no answer, Lukas had moved to the front of the fence, looking down both ends of the street to see if Maren was coming.

Lukas was excited to see her, to be with her, to hold and cherish her, to catch up on those three years they've been apart. Thankfully, he didn't have to wait long when he saw her turning the corner at the end of the path, heading towards him. She was wearing a dark blue dress that day, one with slightly shorter sleeves, given the warmer weather. When she reached Lukas, Maren smiled and gave him a quick greeting as she fished out a set of keys from her bag. She opened the door and let them in, shutting the door behind them with a click once they were inside. Lukas shrugged off his jacket and it was then that Maren didn't hesitate to drop her items and kiss Lukas properly, her hands cupping his jaw.

'Welcome to my humble abode,' she said to him, gesturing the hallway after parting. 'I come here on Fridays, just to escape the madness of home a little bit. A friend of mine is letting me stay here—it's her home, but she's never here so I'm looking after it for her in a way.' The smile was back on her face, pink lips stretching to her ears; Lukas found himself being absolutely mesmerised by her. 'Shall I give you a tour?'

Forgetting everything else that had happened the past week, Lukas let himself be taken around the little house, following Maren into each room and listening to her excited voice as she showed him what was in there. He lost himself in the sound of her talking, letting the feeling of freedom overtake him. Wherever Maren was, Lukas felt comfortable. When they reached the last room, Lukas' calm feeling was replaced by something else. He suddenly found it hard to breathe, especially with the furtive look that Maren was sending his way.

'And this is the bedroom!' she sang, grinning at Lukas as they went through the doorway. Maren allowed her hands to trail up Lukas' chest, slowly, surely, until the tips of her fingers were tracing his jawline and her lips were millimetres away from his. 'I missed you.' She pressed their lips together, a brush of a touch. 'God, I did.'

Having no reply ready on his tongue, Lukas let his actions do the talking. He brought Maren towards him, making their bodies flush against each other and tilted his head upwards to kiss her deeply. Her breath tickled his lower lip as she sighed into his mouth, and her fingers threaded through his hair as his own ran up the soft curves of her back and hips. Heat thrived between them, a heat that Lukas never wanted to fade.

There was no war to tear them apart. There was no bullet wound to separate them. There was no pending danger to make their days together numbered.

Lukas' senses screamed Maren.

Maren, Maren, Maren.

She was all he cared about. She was the one thing that made him happy beyond belief. With her in his heart and soul, there was nothing that could make Lukas upset. This was love. He loved her, with his entire being. He had never loved anyone like this, nor could he think to love anyone more than he loved Maren.

Maren was the perfect being, and bloody hell, he had waited three years to be with her again! Nothing was going to separate them. Nothing.

'You're amazing,' he whispered at their lips. He kissed her nose. 'You're so beautiful.' He kissed her cheek. 'You're more stunning than the stars.' He kissed her mouth and intertwined their hands together, fingers curling around each other and palms pressed together. 'You're…'

Lukas paused abruptly. Frowning deeply at the foreign feeling—and effectively ignoring Maren's puzzled call of his name—Lukas lifted their joined hands up and looked down at them. Seeing something in particular—something that made everything inside of him scream 'No!'—Lukas let go and hurriedly moved away from Maren.

Confusion enveloped her features and she tilted her head to the side. 'What is it, Lukas?'

Lukas swallowed.

This… this can't be!

'You're married.'

To be continued...