"You're awake."

Mila had walked into the spare bedroom of her house to find the German soldier she had been tending to struggling to sit up, eyes heavy with drowsiness, forehead beaded with fresh droplets of sweat from the exertion his attempts to rise from the bed he lay in had taken.

"Don't try to get up," Mila said sitting down the tray she had been carrying on the bedside table. "You'll bust your stitches," she added, kneeling beside him, lowering him lightly back onto his back.

"Wh-what happened?" The man croaked out in a throaty whisper, his gaze, though unfocused, falling on Mila.

"You were shot..." Mila said cautiously, examining the man.

"Am I in a h-hospital?"

"No," Mila shook her head. "I found you on my door step. I've been taking care of you here." She grabbed the tray she had been carrying when she had walked in and laid it at the foot of the bed, taking a seat on the bedside stool.

"Are you a nurse?" The soldier asked, watching her more intently now as she went to work opening and preparing the various supplies that littered the tray.

"No," Mila replied, opening the bottle of Morphine, pouring a small amount into a measuring cup. "Drink it. It'll help the pain," she said, holding the cup out.

"I'm okay," the man replied, eyeing the dark, thick liquid cautiously.

"It wasn't a suggestion," she insisted, holding out the cup until it was directly in front of his face. "Besides, you'll wish you had it once I'm done cleaning your wound." The man's eyes traveled from the cup, to Mila, then back to the cup. He reached out hesitantly and took it, tipping its contents into his mouth, swallowing with a grimace. "Good." She took the cup from him, placing it back on the tray. "Now," Mila began, reaching for the buttons of the man's shirt, "I'll need to redress your wound." The man nodded, wincing as he laid back against the mattress.

Mila pealed back the white button down she had dressed the soldier in after she had stripped off the bloody uniform he had been wearing. The shirt had been one of her brother's and had fit the man well, though the length was a bit short on his frame since he was a few inches taller than Abel had been. Mila examined the dressing she had placed on the man's abdomen, carefully pealing back the surgical tape she had used to secure it. Slowly, she pealed back the gauze. The wound looked clean, the makeshift sutures she had sewn in place still securely holding the wound's edges together.

The bullet hole had been larger than she had expected the night she found him. The perpetrator had most likely used a shot gun of some kind ... maybe a rifle. A handgun had certainly not inflicted the amount of damage this man had sustained. She traced a finger lightly over the stitches. He had needed nearly ten to close up the entirety of the hole the bullet had left in its wake. Mila glanced up at the soldier's face. He was watching her with curiosity. She hastily pulled her hand away, a red blush creeping up her cheeks. She grabbed the bottle of Gin from the tray. The man furrowed his brows, a questioning look painted across his face.

"No rubbing alcohol on hand I'm afraid." Milla shrugged. "I've been using this to clean your wound." Twisting off the top, she slowly tipped the bottle over, careful to pour only a small amount across the wound. The man's face scrunched up in pain, his abdominal muscles contracting. "Sorry," Mila said, giving him an apologetic smile as she recapped the bottle and placed it back on the tray. She grabbed a gauze and patted the wound dry.

"So," the man began, gritting his teeth as Mila dabbed at the tender flesh, "If you're not a nurse, how do you know how," he grunted in discomfort, "to suture?"

"My father was a doctor," Mila replied absentmindedly, grabbing a dry gauze, placing it over the area before securing it with tape. "I helped in his clinic when I was younger."

"Where is he now?" The man asked, his muscles relaxing now that she was finished with her work. "Was he enlisted as an army medic?"

"No ..." Mila replied, sadness marring her features as the memory of her father's death flooded her mind. She swallowed, forcing the thoughts away. "He's dead. Died in a car crash a long with my brother," she lied. She met the soldier's eyes. He was looking at her, his brows furrowed in a mixture of surprise and concern.

"I ..." He began but trailed off, "I'm sorry." Mila gave him a sad smile.

"It's okay," she said with a dismissive shake of the head. "It was a long time ago." She looked away, suddenly uncomfortable under the man's gaze. "Do you feel up to eating? She asked, changing the subject.

"I'm starved actually," The man replied with a nod of the head. She nodded back.

"I'll bring you some broth." With that, Mila rose and picked up the tray, leaving the room. She returned a moment later, tray in hand, a small bowl of steaming liquid a top it. Sitting it on the man's lap, she helped lift him into a sitting position, propping him up with pillows before she sat down on her stool again. "It's not much. Just some bone broth. Don't want to put your stomach to the test just yet, considering you've been asleep for three days now." The man looked at her, a perplexed look on his face.

"Three days?" The man asked, his brows furrowing. Mila nodded.

"You came down with a fever the morning after I found you ... nearly 103," she explained. "I've plenty of Morphine, no antibiotics though. So all I could do was keep your wound clean and pray the fever broke on its own. It didn't though ... at least not until this morning." She added. The man nodded, though his brow remained furrowed. "Well ..." she began, standing to her feet once again. "I'll leave you to your meal." She turned towards the door stopping in its frame when the man spoke.

"I don't believe I caught your name." Mila turned to look at him, placing a hand on the doorframe. Should she lie? Tell him the truth ... or at least her bended version of the truth? She couldn't tell him her real name, of course.

"Mila," she replied, resolving that the truth, as bended as it might've been, was her best option. "Mila Vanderwall." The man nodded, and for the first time a small smile crossed his lips. "I don't believe I caught yours either," She added, returning his smile.

"Josef Fischer," The man replied.

"Well," Mila nodded, her smile widening, "It's nice to meet you Mr. Fischer."

"Likewise ... Ms. Vanderwall."

~

Mila turned the knob of the door to the guest bedroom. Cracking it open, she peered inside. The soldier had fallen asleep with the tray still on his lap. Opening the door the rest of the way, she walked inside. She picked up the tray from his lap and laid it on the bureau. Turning towards the door something caught her eye. Turning back towards the bureau she eyed the man's uniform jacket. Something was glinting in the afternoon sunlight that shown through the window. Glancing over her shoulder to make sure he was still asleep, she unfolded the jacket, revealing a shiny medal pinned to the front pocket.

A Knight's Cross.

Mila unpinned the medal and picked it up to examine. The front shield was stained with blood, as much of his other clothing had been. Licking her thumb, she ran it over the medal, smudging the dried blood off, restoring it to its original shininess. Though she didn't know much about awards given within the German military, she knew enough to know that a Knight's Cross wasn't just given to anyone.

She looked back at the soldier lying in bed, holding his medal gingerly in her hands. Josef. He had said his name was Josef. He seemed kind ... what did such a seemingly kind man do to earn a medal from the German Reich? What had he done that had been deemed 'honorable'' by the Nazi regime? Mila shook the thoughts away. Of course he had been kind to her ... she had saved his life. But would he show her the same kindness if he knew the truth? If he knew she was what the Nazi's hated most?

Mila turned, placing the medal on the bureau. She had forgotten herself earlier. Forgotten who she was dealing with. Josef could show her all the kindness in the world ... it wouldn't change who he was ... or the danger he posed.