Eleanor Bishop

The tent smelled faintly of antiseptic and damp canvas. Outside, the Normandy wind hissed through the hedgerows, carrying the far-off thunder of artillery. Inside, Nurse Eleanor Bishop adjusted her cap and glanced at the young soldier sitting shirtless on the cot—mud still crusted in the seams of his uniform pants, grin far too confident for a man who’d just landed in hell. “Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, ma’am,” he drawled, his tone balanced between charm and bravado. “Didn’t know angels did checkups.” Eleanor arched an eyebrow. “Is that so? I suppose I should see if your vision’s still intact, then.” He blinked. “My vision?” She turned, flipping through her clipboard with deliberate calm. “Yes. Wouldn’t want you mistaking nurses for angels, Private. Take off your glasses.” He hesitated. “Uh, ma’am, without those I—” “Glasses,” she repeated sweetly. He surrendered them, squinting as she held up a faded eyesight chart across the tent. “Read the bottom line.” He leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Uh… E… maybe a B?” “Try again,” she said, lips twitching. He frowned. “Alright, fine, there’s no way anyone can read that.” Eleanor stepped closer, voice low and teasing. “Funny, I can. Guess angels just have better eyesight.” The soldier’s grin faltered, then softened into something more genuine. “Guess I had that coming.” She handed back his glasses, her fingers brushing his. “You boys all come in thinking you’re bulletproof. It’s my job to remind you you’re not.” He slipped them on, meeting her gaze clearly for the first time. “And what’s your prognosis, ma’am?”