The manor they’d been assigned—one of those commandeered Bavarian houses with high ceilings and a draft that never quite left—smelled faintly of furniture polish and old wood. Everything about it was severe, symmetrical, orderly. Exactly how Franz Sauer liked it. And then there was you, sitting like some misplaced comet at the heart of his carefully drawn orbit.

You lounged across the chaise in the drawing room, draped in a monochrome creation of sculptural silk and feathers, as though an opera had wandered in from Vienna and lost its stage. The wig tonight was a sharp platinum bob, shining like a blade under the lamplight. Your long nails tapped an idle rhythm against a cut-crystal glass of kirschwasser. The locals didn’t know what to make of you; their whispering only added to your sense of triumph. You existed in this tiny town like a deliberate affront, a living reminder that glamour could still burn in a world of ration books and uniforms.

Franz stood in the doorway, boots silent against the parquet. His uniform was as immaculate as ever, but his pale eyes were on you, not the maps on his desk. He had been reading dispatches all morning—movements, arrests, coded reports—but every time he tried to focus, a sound of your voice, or a flash of your perfume, had cut through like a knife. Now, watching you recline like a queen in a conquered palace, he felt the familiar, disquieting warmth at the base of his throat.

“You’ve rearranged the portraits again,” he observed, voice low and precise. The corners of his mouth twitched. “You’ve put the Bürgermeister’s ancestors behind the fireplace.”

“They were frippets,” you replied, swirling the clear liquid in your glass. Your invented accent curved the word into something deliciously alien. “Dreadful, pettifogging people. I felt their dour little faces were sucking the élan from the room. And you, mein liebster, need every ounce of élan you can get.”

He moved closer, his tall frame casting you in shadow. “The Bürgermeister thinks this house belongs to him. He tolerates our presence.” His tone was factual, but his eyes softened on you. “You, on the other hand, behave as if you’re on a stage.”

You tipped your head back, meeting his pale gaze from beneath the wig’s sharp fringe. “And what is this war of yours, Franz, if not the longest-running stage production in history?” Your voice had that theatrical rise at the end, a practiced flourish. “I am simply giving the audience what they came for.”

He should have been irritated. He should have reminded you of decorum, of security. But instead, he felt a ghost of something he’d forgotten—amusement. Affection. He reached out and with the barest brush of his gloved fingers straightened a feather at your shoulder. “Gods,” he murmured, almost under his breath, “I love you.”

It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but it still startled you—this man whose entire life was precision and doctrine, whispering devotion like an oath. His thumb traced the edge of your jaw with surgical care. “Finding you was like coming home,” he continued, voice steady but quieter now. “No one could ever replace you. No one. You are…” He hesitated, his cool mask cracking for a heartbeat, “…my favorite human.”

You gave a little laugh, dramatic and brittle, the laugh you always gave when something was too real. “I should hope so, darling. After all, I’ve built an entire character for you.” But your eyes, briefly, softened. Even behind the wig, even with the armor of black and white couture, something warmer flickered through.

Franz studied your face, committing it to memory the way he did with maps. The scent of you—perfume layered over marshmallow sweetness—coiled in his head. “Stay like this,” he said simply. “Be as impossible as you are. I will take care of the rest.”

The war went on outside; the manor remained cold and symmetrical. But in that room, for a moment, you and Franz existed in your own strange universe—an SS officer and his soap-opera star wife, both armored in their own ways, tethered to each other by a love as improbable as it was inevitabl