The tavern as always, smelled of old wood, stale beer, and lingering smoke from the night before. Morning light filtered through the dusty windows, casting long beams across the quiet common room. In the back, tucked away behind a closed, and bolted door, a small group of Resistance fighters crowded into a cramped storeroom. The air was close, filled with the scent of sweat, and the faint tang of damp clothing.

  Emmett sat at the head of the room, his back against the wall, one leg stretched out stiffly and the other bent awkwardly beneath the table. He looked worse for wear. Pale, unshaven, and with dark circles under his eyes, but his gaze was still sharp. He gripped his crutch tightly in one hand, his knuckles white, and tried not to let the pain show as he adjusted in his seat with a grimace.

  They were speaking in French, slow and measured for Emmett's sake. As always, his accent was clumsy, but the words came with enough clarity to get his point across.

  "I will be staying here," Emmett began, his voice low and hoarse. "For at least a month. Doctor says I'll recover, but it's going to take time."

  The room was quiet save for the creak of chairs and the occasional cough. Luc leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, a smirk already tugging at the corner of his mouth.

  "So while we crawl through the mud, and our asses shot at," Luc said dryly, "you'll be here, sleeping in... chasing that woman."

  Emmett gave Luc a flat, unimpressed look, saying nothing.

  Henri chuckled and waved a hand. "You’re welcome to get shot in the gut, if you wish the same vacation."

  "No, no," Luc said quickly, grinning. "I'm quite fine Monsieur Roux."

  Emmett shifted again, wincing as he found a better position. He looked at the gathered men, his expression stern but with a trace of weariness.

  "Just because I’m laid up doesn’t mean the rest of you get to slack off. There’s still work to be done. Germans don’t stop for bullet wounds. Henri will take charge. You follow his lead."

  All eyes shifted to Henri, who simply nodded once, calm and confident.

  "Three days," Emmett continued. "You leave in three days. Until then, rest. Eat well. Patch your gear. When you're out there, I don't want Henri to hear any bitching about your boots or empty stomachs."

  A murmur of agreement passed through the room. One of the younger fighters, raised a hand slightly.

  "How are you feeling, monsieur Granger?"

  Emmett glanced at him, then let out a dry laugh devoid of humor. "Just fine," he said sarcastically. "Feeling just fucking fine."

  The young man nodded quickly, averting his gaze elsewhere.

  Emmett turned to Henri, raising an eyebrow. "Anything you want to add?"

  Henri shook his head. "No, monsieur. You've said it all."

  Emmett looked around at the rest. "Questions?"

  Silence.

  A few shook their heads. No one met his gaze directly.

  "Good," he grunted, waving his hand toward the door. "Fuck off, then. Get drunk, get laid, eat something. You’ve got three more days. Make them count."

  The men chuckled softly, some clapping each other on the shoulders as they filed out into the tavern proper. The murmur of voices and the scrape of chairs soon followed.

  Henri lingered, stepping forward to offer Emmett a hand. Emmett took it with a grunt, using it to pull himself to his feet.

  "I'll keep them busy," Henri said in English, his voice low and reassuring.

  Emmett nodded, leaning on his crutch as he made his way toward the tavern floor. "I don’t doubt it," he muttered.

  As the tavern door shut behind the last of the men, Henri clapped the dust from his hands and gave Emmett a sideways glance.

  “Let’s fetch some food, Emmett,” he said, patting his stomach. “My gut is begging for it.”

  Emmett nodded, pushing himself upright with a soft grunt. “Hell, I won’t argue.”

  The two men stepped out of the Inn and into the morning light. The village was beginning to stir, the sleepy streets warming under a pale sun. Shops were cracking their doors open, the scent of fresh bread drifting through the narrow alleys. A few townsfolk offered cautious waves as they passed. Some familiar with Henri, others curious about the limping man at his side.

  Henri tucked his hands into his coat pockets and grinned. “You know,” he said, “those men won’t know what to do, without you around to make them all miserable.”

  Emmett smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching. “That’ll be your job for now. Keep ’em from getting too damn happy.”

  Henri chuckled, nodding. “I’ll consider it my mission. Only slightly less important than making the Germans miserable.”

  He pointed across the street to the small bakery tucked beneath a sloped roof, its shutters open and spilling warm smells into the air. “There,” he said, and led the way.

  Inside, the air was thick with the scent of flour and yeast, the warmth of ovens banishing the morning chill. Loaves were lined neatly on shelves behind the counter, and a young woman stood behind it, flour dusting her apron and cheeks.

  Henri’s steps faltered as he recognized her. “Isabelle?” he asked, surprise brightening his voice.

  The woman blinked, and then her face lit up. “Henri? Henri Roux?”

  “I haven’t seen you in… Dieu, how long has it been?” he said, stepping closer with a boyish grin.

  “You haven’t changed a bit,” Isabelle said, her eyes dancing.

  Henri placed a hand dramatically on his chest. “You wound me. I’ve become much more handsome with age.”

  She laughed, the sound warm and genuine. The two slipped into easy conversation, voices overlapping in fond recollection. Mentioning locals, and the way the village had changed while Henri had been away.

  Emmett, meanwhile, stepped to the side where an older man, likely the owner stood wiping down a countertop. Emmett gave him a respectful nod and, in careful French, requested a loaf of bread.

  The man wrapped it neatly and accepted a few coins from Emmett with a grateful smile.

  Emmett turned and called over his shoulder, “Henri, hurry it up or I’ll eat your damn portion.”

  Henri waved him off without looking, still engrossed in the past and in the curves of the now-grown Isabelle. Emmett shook his head with a faint smirk and limped outside.

  He settled onto a bench just outside the bakery, the wood creaking beneath him as he eased down. His stomach throbbed with every motion, but the fresh air helped. He tore the loaf in half, resting Henri’s piece on his thigh. The bread was warm, soft inside with a crackling crust. He took a bite, chewing slowly, eyes drifting across the square.

  He looked toward the butcher’s shop at the far end of the street, his mind briefly turning to the idea of sausage. Something with some heft to go with the bread. His thoughts were interrupted as Henri stepped out into the light with a smug grin plastered across his face.

  Henri snatched the bread from Emmett’s lap and held up his hands. “She was all legs and elbows when we were children,” he said. “Feet too big, neck too long. We all thought she’d grow up to look like a stork.”

  He bit into the bread and chewed dramatically. “But mon ami… she really grew into herself.”

  Emmett snorted, glancing sideways at him. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

  Henri shrugged. “Well, maybe I am. The world is full of surprises.” He nodded toward the square, then looked at Emmett more seriously. “Tell me, Emmett… do you have any plans when this war is over?”

  Emmett’s chewing slowed. He swallowed hard, feeling the question settle heavier than he expected. “I ain’t really thought that far down the road,” he muttered.

  Henri leaned back on the bench, chewing as he spoke. “Why not? We all need something to look forward to.”

  Emmett sighed, shifting the bread in his hand. “I take it one day at a time. Hasn’t failed me yet.”

  Henri gave a small shake of his head. “I suppose that’s all we really can do, oui? But me… I dream of a quiet home. Maybe right here. A beautiful wife. Two boys, both pigheaded and loud, like me.” He jabbed a finger into Emmett’s arm, grinning as Emmett winced and scowled.

  “Cut that out,” Emmett said with a glare.

  Henri ignored him, gaze drifting towards the direction of Adele’s home. “You could do the same, you know. Bring Adele back to America. Or stay. I see how you look at her.”

  Emmett said nothing, staring at his bread as if it might provide an answer.

  “She told you her father was American, non?” Henri asked.

  Emmett nodded. “Stayed after the Great War.”

  Henri gestured with a half-eaten hunk of bread. “Maybe you’ll do the same.”

  Emmett stared off, his voice flat. “Maybe.”

  “Bah,” Henri said, waving a hand. “You’re always acting like life is something to be endured, mon ami. It’s foolish.”

  Emmett glanced at him. “You need to get your head out of the damn clouds.”

  Henri took another bite and shrugged. “Maybe. But you need to get out of that damn hole you’ve dug. We can meet at even ground, oui?”

  He jabbed his bread toward Adele’s house again. “Start with that fine woman. Please don’t tell me you’re just as miserable around her.”

  Emmett exhaled slowly. “I ain’t.”

  Henri smiled as if he’d won a wager. “Wonderful. Perhaps there’s hope for you yet, monsieur Granger.”

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Emmett shifted with a groan, brushing crumbs from his coat. “Honestly, I’m not sure if there’s much hope for me and Adele. But…” He paused. “She hasn’t told me off yet.”

  Henri nodded, mouth full. “That is good, then.”

  The church bell chimed softly in the distance, marking the hour with a slow, tired rhythm. Henri pulled his coat tighter as he stood from the bench where Emmett sat.

  “I’m going to speak with Father Brenard,” Henri said, already turning toward the church.

  Emmett shifted in his seat with a groan and started to push himself up, one hand gripping the armrest. “I’ll go with…”

  “No,” Henri interrupted firmly, glancing back with a finger pointed like a scolding parent. “Absolutely not. This meeting is all business. You're on holiday, remember?”

  Emmett arched a brow. “Since when the hell did we start calling gut wounds a holiday?”

  Henri just grinned, spreading his arms in mock cheer. “Since you’ve got good food, a soft bed, and that pretty girl making moon eyes at you.” He gave a playful wave. “Rest, mon ami. That’s an order.”

  Then he was off, disappearing down the narrow lane that led to the church. Emmett let out a long sigh and leaned back with a wince, placing a hand gently over the still-healing wound in his abdomen. It pulsed beneath his fingers. A dull, ever-present ache.

  He muttered, “Yeah, some damn holiday.”

  He reached into his jacket and pulled out the battered tin flask Henri had given him. Filled with what Henri had proudly declared as schnapps, though Emmett was fairly certain it had been distilled in someone’s shed. It burned like hell, but at least it did something.

  He unscrewed the cap and took a long pull. The heat slid down his throat, clawed through his chest, and settled in his gut like fire. He coughed once, then took another swig, squinting into the sunlight.

  "Bah! Drinking before it’s even evening,” came a sharp, judgmental voice.

  Emmett’s brow twitched. He didn’t need to look to know who it was.

  He turned his head slowly and saw the wiry, familiar figure of Monsieur Perrin hobbling across the square, cane tapping steadily on the cobblestones. The old man’s coat flapped around his knees, his scarf knotted too tightly around his throat like he was bracing for a winter storm, even though the air was mild.

  Perrin’s expression was as sour as his tone, his dull eyes narrowing at Emmett as if the American’s mere presence offended him.

  Emmett gave a tired grunt. “Mind your own damn business, old man.”

  Perrin snorted, not stopping as he passed by. “My business is this village,” he said, still speaking French. “And so is telling off foolish Americans.”

  Emmett’s eyes snapped up, his jaw tightening. He turned more fully toward Perrin, his voice low and laced with a warning edge. “What the hell did you just say?”

  The old man stopped, one foot still forward, his cane paused mid-step. He turned his head slightly, just enough to meet Emmett’s glare with a crooked smirk. “I said,” Perrin repeated, calm and unapologetic, “you’re a foolish American.”

  For a long second, neither man moved.

  Then Emmett slowly lifted the flask again and tipped it back with deliberate slowness. He swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and looked the old man square in the eyes.

  “Well, don’t you forget it.”

  Perrin gave a low huff, and continued hobbling on his way without another word, muttering to himself as he disappeared around the corner.

  Emmett watched him go, lips curling into a bitter half-smile. “Still got it, you miserable bastard,” he muttered under his breath, raising the flask in a mock toast toward Perrin’s retreating figure.

  Then he leaned back again, eyes drifting skyward. The clouds were thin today, trailing across the blue in lazy streaks, the sun warming his face just enough to take the edge off the pain.

  He stayed there for a while, letting the burn of the schnapps dull the throb in his gut, alone once more with his thoughts and the ever-present ache of healing.

  The little cottage smelled like home-cooked comfort. Leeks and potatoes simmering on the stove, faint wisps of steam curling up from the old cast-iron pot. Adele moved easily through the small kitchen, her sleeves rolled up and a faint smudge of flour across her apron. The fire crackled softly, casting flickering golden light against the stone walls. Outside, the sun had already dipped behind the trees, leaving the sky painted in soft lavender and fading blue.

  Emmett sat at the table, resting heavily in the worn wooden chair. His crutch leaned against the wall behind him, and one hand nursed a chipped mug of water. The other arm lay across his midsection protectively, his fingers occasionally brushing against the dull throb that never quite left his gut. Despite the ache, he felt content. Maybe even at peace. If such a thing was possible anymore.

  Across from him, Julien chattered away in English with youthful enthusiasm, Something about a dog he saw chasing chickens in the village square. His gestures were wild, his voice rising and falling with dramatic flair. Emmett nodded occasionally, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, but his mind wasn’t entirely on the story.

  The quiet… the warmth of the fire, the smell of dinner cooking, the softness of Adele’s laughter from the stove. It tugged at something deep inside Emmett. Something he’d boarded up years ago. He hadn’t realized just how long it had been since he sat like this. Safe. Seated at a table with people who weren't waiting for a firefight to break the silence.

  His eyes drifted to Adele. She was facing away, stirring the pot, humming softly to herself. His gaze lingered longer than he meant it to, until he heard his name.

  “Emmett... Emmett?”

  Julien’s voice brought him back, confused and slightly concerned.

  Emmett cleared his throat and straightened in his seat. “Sorry, kid. Think I dozed off with my eyes open,” he said with a tired chuckle. “What were you sayin’?”

  “I was asking what your favorite song is,” Julien repeated, looking genuinely curious.

  Emmett absently rubbed his thumb on his cup, letting out a low breath. “Truth be told, it’s been a long damn time since I sat down and listened to the radio. Don’t reckon I’ve had the luxury.”

  Adele approached the table just then, carrying a small stack of bowls in her hands. She set one in front of Emmett, one in front of Julien, and the last for herself. The soup’s aroma filled the room.

  “You must have some songs you like,” she said, settling into her chair and glancing at Emmett with a smile.

  He chuckled softly, rubbing the back of his neck as if trying to coax the memory out. “On the spot? I’m strugglin’ to think of one.”

  Adele’s smile deepened, tinged with memory. “Our father… he had a few favorites. He used to sing them with our mother when we were little. One of them was ‘You Are My Sunshine.’ Do you know it?”

  Emmett paused, his brow furrowing. Not with confusion, but recollection. “Yeah… yeah, I know it. Been a while since I heard it. But I remember.” He leaned back slightly in his chair, eyes growing distant. “It played on my folks radio from time to time. And my Momma used to sing it, every now and then. Especially when my little sister was sick. I remember she’d sit at the end of her bed and sing it soft. It always helped her sleep.”

  Adele’s expression softened. “You have a sister?”

  Emmett’s jaw tightened slightly, and he nodded. “Yeah. I did. Her name was Margerite.” He swallowed hard, then added quietly, “She died when I was twelve.”

  Julien looked down at his bowl, unsure what to say, but Adele reached across the table, her fingers brushing Emmett’s hand gently. “I’m sorry.”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “No use cryin’ over what you can’t change.”

  Adele sat back, folding her arms across her chest. “Tell me about your family,” she said, her tone hopeful, inviting.

  Emmett hesitated. This wasn’t something he talked about. Not really. Not ever.

  “My pa’s name is Martin,” he started finally. “Ma’s Abigail. Older brother named Ray. Big, loud bastard. Always lookin’ to start somethin’. I was the middle kid.”

  He shifted, adjusting his seat with a quiet grunt. “Haven’t heard from them in years… I left home back in ’39. Sorta’ made my own way. Haven’t been good about writing, if I’m honest.”

  Adele frowned, sensing something deeper in his words. “Do you miss them?”

  Emmett shrugged, looking at his hands. “Don’t think about it much. Almost feels like another life.”

  Julien, oblivious to the undercurrent, leaned forward. “Why haven’t you written them?”

  Emmett offered him a tired smile. “Been busy, kid. You know… blowin’ up bridges, eating soup with pretty women.” He gestured vaguely toward the table, trying to keep the mood light.

  Julien laughed, but Adele didn’t miss the tension that lingered in Emmett’s shoulders. The way his eyes didn’t quite meet there’s.

  She decided it was time to steer things back to safer waters. “You said your mother sang ‘You Are My Sunshine,’ right?” she asked gently. “Do you remember the words?”

  “Maybe a few,” he said. “Ain’t heard it in years, though.”

  Adele smiled and leaned on her elbows. “It’s a lovely song. Simple… but it stays with you.”

  Emmett tapped his spoon gently against the rim of his bowl, staring down into the steaming soup as if the lyrics were hiding somewhere in the swirl of potatoes and leeks. He cleared his throat softly, sitting back in his chair with a slow stretch, and then, in a low, gravel-edged voice, began to sing a few lines of You Are My Sunshine.

  “You are my sunshine... my only sunshine...” The words came rough, a little unsure, his voice more spoken than sung.

  He trailed off after a line or two, the rest fading on his tongue. He gave a soft huff, shaking his head and waving his spoon like a white flag.

  “Ah, hell,” he muttered. “Honestly, I can’t remember it all off the top of my head. Not proper, anyway.”

  Julien didn’t seem to mind. He was too busy shoveling spoonfuls of soup into his mouth, content as a puppy with a bone. Adele smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, watching Emmett as he leaned back and took a bite of his own meal. He chewed slowly, thoughtfully, letting the warmth of the broth work its way into his bones.

  After a pause, Emmett lifted his gaze again, as if an old memory had crept up from the corners of his mind.

  “Y’all ever heard of Jimmie Rodgers?”

  Adele blinked, the name clearly unfamiliar. Julien looked up, cheeks puffed out with soup, and shook his head in silence. He swallowed with a loud gulp, then muttered, “Who’s that?”

  Emmett smirked, setting his spoon down. “Didn’t figure you had. Old cowboy singer. Back from the States. He did these folky kinda’ numbers. Bit of blues, bit of folk, some real raw stuff. He had a yodel that could make the dust dance off a tin roof.”

  Julien looked skeptical. “Yodel?”

  “Yeah,” Emmett chuckled. “Sounds strange, but it worked. One of his songs. In the Jailhouse Now. That one stuck with me. It’s a funny one, kind of tongue-in-cheek. Starts with this fella, Ramblin’ Bob, who kept getting himself in trouble. Gambling, running his mouth, never learnin’ his lesson. Ends up getting locked up.”

  He chuckled softly to himself, shaking his head. “When I was younger, I always thought it was funny. But now?” He shrugged, poking absently at a piece of potato in his bowl. “Kinda gets to you different. You start thinking maybe you resemble Ramblin’ Bob a bit too much. World keeps turning, and some men don’t realize they ain’t above it.”

  Adele tilted her head, her expression thoughtful. “You see yourself in him?”

  Emmett let the question hang in the air a moment before answering.

  “Maybe a little,” he said, voice low. “Gawd knows, I used to think I was the smartest guy around.”

  Julien leaned forward eagerly. “Can you sing it for us?”

  Emmett blinked, caught off guard, then let out a sharp laugh. “Me? Sing? Boy, I ain't exactly Jimmie Rodgers.”

  “Oh come now,” Adele teased, propping her chin in her hand. “You brought it up. It’s only fair.”

  Emmett raised his hands as if to defend himself, smiling despite the protest. “Let a man finish his supper before he makes a fool of himself. Soup’s gettin’ cold.”

  Adele chuckled, narrowing her eyes playfully. “I’m holding you to it, cowboy.”

  Emmett couldn’t help but smile to himself as he made his way down the worn dirt path toward the tavern. He walked slower than usual, careful of the persistent ache in his side, but he didn’t mind. His thoughts were still back at Adele’s cottage. The way Julien lit up hearing about songs from a world beyond their little village, the soft laugh Adele gave when he’d tried and mostly butchered the melody to In the Jailhouse Now.

  Damn fool, he thought to himself with a grin. Singing at a dinner table like he was on stage. But it had been a damn good evening. The soup had settled nicely in his stomach, the lingering taste of leeks and broth comforting. It was a rare thing: to feel full, warm, and not entirely miserable.

  The old tavern came into view, lantern light glowing behind the shutters. He limped through the door, the hinges creaking softly as he stepped inside. The familiar scent of smoke, wood, and stale beer greeted him like an old friend. A few men nursed drinks in the corners, playing quiet rounds of cards. Luc leaned against the counter, sipping from a mug, one leg crossed over the other in easy confidence.

  Emmett approached him, switching to French as he reached the bar. “Where’s Henri?”

  Luc glanced up from his drink and offered a smile. “He should be upstairs. In our room.”

  Emmett gave a small nod. “Thanks.”

  Luc held up a hand, his smile widening. “Ah, he might be a little… busy.”

  Emmett raised an eyebrow, not catching the tone. “He can’t be that busy.”

  Luc just laughed, raising his drink in a mock toast.

  Shaking his head, Emmett turned and made his way toward the stairs. Each step was a protest from his side. He muttered under his breath, hand gripping the rail as he climbed. Reaching the landing, he walked to the door of the room the men shared and gave it a quick knock.

  “Henri, I got…”

  He opened the door and immediately froze.

  Henri’s bare backside greeted him, stark and unmistakable in the flickering lamplight. The young woman beneath him let out a startled noise, yanking a sheet up in surprise. It was the same girl from the bakery. Isabela, if Emmett remembered right.

  Henri, without missing a beat, turned his head just enough to speak. “Can… can I help you, monsieur?”

  Emmett blinked, slowly closed the door, and exhaled through his nose like a man ten seconds away from saying something sharp. “Nope. Ain’t important,” he called back, voice flat. “You two have fun.”

  He made his way back down the stairs, grumbling to himself as he reached the bottom. Luc, still at the bar, turned just in time to catch the look Emmett gave him half exasperation, half exhausted resignation.

  “You could’ve been more specific,” Emmett muttered, switching back to French as he eased himself onto the barstool beside him.

  Luc shrugged with a satisfied grin. “Ah, but this was more amusing.”

  Emmett just stared at him for a beat, then snorted softly. “Yeah. For you.”

  The tavern keeper stepped over at Luc’s beckoning. Luc motioned toward Emmett, speaking in French again. “He looks like he could use a drink, don’t you think?”

  The tavern keeper nodded and slid a mug of dark amber ale across the counter. Emmett caught it, raised it in mock salute, and took a long sip.

  “Fuck it,” he muttered into the rim.

  Luc laughed, clinking his own mug lightly against Emmett’s. “To Henri. May he always be busy when you least expect it.”

  Emmett sighed, low and tired. “Damn you to hell.”

  Luc leaned back in his seat, content. “Better get used to it, American. We French… how do you say, make time for life, even during war.”

  Emmett took another drink. “Remind me to knock next time.”