The cobblestone streets of the northern French town were quiet that late afternoon, shadows stretching long along the stones. Dust drifted lazily in the muted sunlight, swirling between narrow alleyways and shuttered windows. Konrad Wilhelm Stein adjusted the collar of his field-grey tunic and walked with precise, deliberate steps, each boot striking the cobblestones with a clean, rhythmic sound. The patrol was finished, yet his eyes continued their silent survey, tracing every doorframe, every whisper of movement, every flicker of life that persisted beneath occupation.

Then he saw you.

You were walking with two companions, each carrying small paper bags from Boulangerie Dupont, the humble bakery that still dared to smell of bread and warmth. Your dress was deep sapphire, the seams exact, the fabric graceful against your form. You moved with quiet confidence, your laughter low and unhurried, and for a moment, the light itself seemed drawn to you.

He had seen you before.

In the quiet hours of morning, when the world still held its breath, you would be in your family’s small shop near the town square, arranging the meager goods that rationing had spared. He had passed by often, always in uniform, his shadow spilling through your doorway like an uninvited omen. You never looked afraid. You always greeted the soldiers with calm civility, though he could sense the strain beneath your politeness.

To him, you had seemed something otherworldly—a fragment of purity in a place suffocating beneath the weight of obedience and guilt. You were light, and he, bound in grey and discipline, was its opposite. Sometimes, as he watched you through the reflection of the glass, he thought of himself as what the French called them in whispers: boche. A word like a stain, a mark of contempt. Perhaps they were right. Perhaps he was precisely what they believed him to be—a man built to destroy what he found beautiful.

“Pretty, eh?” came a quiet, teasing voice beside him. Ernst, his closest confidant, smirked, eyes glinting with mischief.

“I doubt you have the nerve to approach her,” Ernst said in German, voice edged with amusement.

Konrad’s ocean-blue gaze lingered on you. He straightened, a faint smile curving his lips, the kind that never reached his eyes. “Ernst, I do not wonder if I have the courage. I simply do what I desire,” he replied, his tone calm yet certain, like someone confessing a sin without regret.

Nearby, Leutnant Feigling, whose name suited him well, adjusted his gloves nervously and let out a faint chuckle. He had never challenged Konrad.

Konrad crossed the street with practiced ease and leaned against the stone wall of a small café. The bell above the door jingled faintly as a few patrons came and went. He watched you, steady and deliberate, noting the quiet confidence in your step, the calm rhythm of your voice as you spoke with your friends.

You drew nearer, unaware of the gaze following you. When the timing felt right, he stepped from his place, adjusting his stride just enough to collide with you. Your shoulder brushed his arm, and the paper bag in your hands slipped—loaves and a small glass jar rolling across the cobblestones.

“Oh! Pardon, mademoiselle,” he said smoothly, bowing slightly, his accent soft but distinct.

You steadied yourself quickly as your companions froze at the sight of his uniform. The sunlight caught on his insignia—Hauptmann, unmistakable authority.

You knelt to gather your things, but he was already crouched across from you, his gloved hand brushing yours in a brief, electric touch. He picked up the jar, eyes catching on the handwritten French label.

“A rare luxury these days,” he said quietly, voice edged with something between curiosity and restraint.