The Spirit of the Corps » Band of Brothers

92: Street Parties for Less

The thought of him marrying someone else felt like a punch to the gut. It left her breathless and feeling vulnerable and in need of a way to defend herself, so she said, "I suppose when you've been with as many women as you have then you'd find it easy to recognise if one of them was special."

He recoiled as if she'd slapped him but she didn't notice. Her eyes were on the roses on the wallpaper.

"Do you remember all their names, Floyd?" she asked, genuinely curious. "Or even their faces?"

Floyd stared at her in silence as she rested her cheek in her hand and gazed at the wall.

"How many of them do you think there have been? In the tens or the hundreds?"

"Charlie," he said.

"I bet kissing someone is as easy as breathing to you now," she went on, not noticing the change in him. "Every time James kissed me I was so nervous I thought I might throw up, and we never even used tongue, but for you it must be just like saying 'hello'."

"Charlie," he said again.

"What?"

"Stop talking."

"No." She scoffed and folded her arms over her chest. "Don't tell me to stop talking, Floyd. You stop talking."

Floyd shook his head with a low laugh. "So shy with everyone else but so snarky with me," he said darkly, finally prompting her eyes back to him. He tutted quietly. "Do I need to come over there and shut you up myself?"

Charlie sat up straighter and tilted her head to one side as she met his heavy stare with one of her own. "You could try."

"Don't tempt me."

"Why not?"

He shook his head, the corners of his lips twitching with the impulse to smile. "It shouldn't happen like this."

"What shouldn't?"

Was she genuinely this clueless or just playing at it? Both options were equally as likely.

Floyd stood from his chair and slowly rounded the table.

Charlie watched him with wide, innocent eyes.

Those blue eyes. He could have painted the entire world that colour and still not seen enough of it.

Each step towards her felt like the first release of breath after holding it in for too long. Her eyes, her hair, the tiny, challenging tug of her lips. Her freckles. Every one of her features, seen and admired so many times he could have drawn her from memory, even with his lack of artistic talent, was so delicate, so beautiful - especially when lit by the moonlight spilling in through the kitchen window - that he thought he felt his heart stop on multiple occasions during that short walk around the table.

"Charlie," he said quietly, revelling in the taste of her name. "Charlie, Charlie, Charlie, Charlie."

She rose from her chair and met him halfway, grown impatient from his slow steps.

"You have no idea how many times I say that name when you're not around," he whispered, so close to her that his breath disturbed her eyelashes.

"You say my name when I'm not around?" Charlie breathed, transfixed by something in his eyes.

"I find it difficult to think of anything but your name when you're not around."

The tiniest hint of a smile. "Do you like my name?"

"I adore it." Had there ever existed a more beautiful sound than her name? Charlie. He could have lived in the sound of that word.

"Floyd," she mumbled, not seeming to realise she was doing it. Her eyes were stuck to his, searching for something, wide and earnest and beautiful. She was so close he could count every freckle, every eyelash. So close they shared every breath.