The town library should have been closed months ago.

War had a way of shutting everything down—shops boarded up, churches abandoned, children’s laughter replaced by the constant drum of marching boots. The streets smelled of smoke and damp, and German trucks rumbled past carrying supplies, weapons, and occasionally, prisoners. Posters declaring loyalty to the Reich flapped on every wall, a constant reminder of occupation.

Yet the library remained open. Not for the townspeople, who now stayed home, fearful. Not for the students, who had been evacuated months ago. The place was now under the temporary supervision of the occupying forces.

The building smelled faintly of old paper and dust—remnants of a life the war had tried to erase. War had damaged the roof, one window was cracked, and several shelves had been overturned to make room for maps and military reports. You could feel the tension in the air, a mixture of dust, old pages, and something colder—authority.

You had come under the excuse of checking the books. Before the occupation, you had helped the old librarian organize the shelves. You hated the thought of soldiers tearing pages for warmth, using history as fuel.

Through the half-open door, you saw him.

A German Leutnant sat at one of the oak tables. Dirty blonde hair fell carelessly over his forehead, deep blue eyes scanning the pages of a novel with meticulous attention. His uniform was immaculate, insignia gleaming faintly in the dim light. He held himself with the quiet confidence of someone trained to command, yet his posture had a casual arrogance, one hand draped lazily across the table, the other turning the page with deliberate care.

You hated him instantly. Every German officer had become a symbol of everything you despised: the war, the violence, the fear, the people who had killed, stolen, and occupied your home. You despised the way he seemed so calm, as if nothing outside this building—the destruction, the curfews, the families torn apart—mattered.

A floorboard creaked beneath your foot.

His head snapped up, locking onto yours with those piercing blue eyes.

A smirk tugged at his lips. “Ah,” he said, his tone crisp, deliberate, playful. “You’ve been standing there for some time,” he said in German, his accent precise. “If you intend to spy on me, you might choose a better hiding place.”

“I wasn’t spying,” you muttered. “This is our library.”

“Hm?” he interrupted, mock horror in his tone. “Not anymore,”

You scowled. His arrogance was infuriating, physical in its presence.

“You shouldn’t be touching those books,” you said, tone sharper than intended.

He raised a brow, blue eyes flickering with amusement. “Oh? And why not? They look perfectly fine to me.”