He cast her a quizzical look but set down the flowers. Careful to avoid touching her, he took one side of a blanket, pinched the corners, and lifted it, letting it billow to the ground. They repeated the process for the second quilt, placing it a few inches from the first.

Sophie waved a hand at the blankets. “These shall be our beds tonight,” she announced, kicking off her slippers and sitting in the center of one of the colorful patchwork quilts.

Reese’s face was unreadable as he sat on the other blanket and faced her. “Have you ever slept outdoors before?”

She tapped a finger to her lips as she considered the question. “I have napped outside. Does that count?”

He picked up one of the asphodel flowers and tentatively plucked a few leaves off the stem. “I suppose so.”

“Have you slept outside before? All night, that is?”

He nodded soberly. “I have. Many times.”

“Do you enjoy it?” she probed.

Silence stretched out between them, and Reese suddenly seemed miles away.

She leaned closer, straining to see his face in the darkness. “Reese?” Maybe it had been foolish of her to bring him here. Perhaps she was only making matters worse.

He shook his head and frowned at the flower in his hand as though he’d forgotten he held it. “Forgive me,” he said, his voice rusty and raw. “I was thinking about the last time I slept outside. It was during my time on the front lines in Portugal, and I was surrounded by fellow soldiers. We were cold and filthy, and our stomachs growled all night. But to answer your question—yes. In spite of all that, I did enjoy sleeping outside.”

Sophie closed her eyes briefly, trying to imagine a fraction of the horrors he must have endured. Her mouth went dry. “I didn’t know you were a soldier.”

“Major in the 41st Foot,” he said, dragging a hand down his face. “I bought my commission eight years ago and fought up until the day I received word about my brother. The next day, I left my regiment to come home.”

She waited to see if he’d say more … but he didn’t. Still, it was a start. In the few snippets he’d shared with her, he’d sounded both proud and melancholy. Dedicated and defeated.

“I’m sorry,” she said earnestly. “About your brother … and about having to leave your company.”

His gaze snapped to hers. “You’re the first person who’s said that you’re sorry about me leaving the infantry,” he said hoarsely. “Everyone assumes I’m grieving for my brother—and God knows I am. But no one seems to understand that I never wanted to come home. That I don’t belong here.”