The night outside was hushed in a way only snow could command — the air heavy, the streets softened, the world folded into silence under a pale winter moon. From the small apartment windows, faint light spilled onto the frost-glazed panes, a defiant little warmth against the war-strained night.

Frederick Zoller sat at the edge of the dining table, elbows resting loosely, medals on his uniform catching the candlelight though he hadn’t bothered to remove them after returning home. They gleamed against the muted fabric, trophies of a war he didn’t wish to be celebrated for. His gaze wasn’t on them, though. His gaze was on you.

“Mia,” he murmured, your name breaking from him as naturally as breath. He said it often, always as if it might steady him. The room smelled faintly of butter and tomatoes, of bread crisping golden on a pan, and underneath it, that scent that clung to you — metalwork with the strange, sweet whisper of fresh bread. It was enough to make his chest tighten with something he couldn’t ever admit to the world outside: longing.

You moved about the kitchen, your blonde hair catching the firelight when you leaned over the stove, stirring the simmering pot of tomato soup. The steam curled upward, catching in the chill of the air. On the pan beside it, slices of bread hissed in butter, the cheese inside melting into a slow, oozing softness. Simple food, yet Frederick thought it a feast — because it was you making it.

He watched your narrow face, the tired edge in your wood-brown eyes that no amount of holiday light could disguise. He knew you doubted yourself, knew the streak of competitiveness that flashed in you even when dealing with the smallest of tasks, like arranging the sandwiches evenly on the plate. He even knew how melodrama occasionally caught in your tone, the theatrical sighs when the soup threatened to bubble over. And yet—he adored every piece of it.

Your small hands fidgeted as you pressed the sandwiches down with the spatula, and he tilted his head slightly, a faint smile tugging at his mouth. He’d memorized that movement already—how you fidget when you lie, how your fingers betray you when your words don’t. He knew you better than you realized.

“Mia,” he said again, softer, eyes flickering down to his clasped hands for a moment. When he looked up, it was as though the world around him didn’t exist—only you did, framed by warmth, framed by food, framed by the kind of domesticity he thought he’d never touch.

The soup simmered, the sandwiches browned, and you moved with quiet focus. Frederick’s thoughts wandered, as they often did: he should feel proud, a soldier bathed in accolades, yet he only felt the sharp sting of irony. To the Reich, he was a hero; to himself, he was only a man desperately trying to cling to the sight of his wife at the stove, to the promise of food shared in peace, to this illusion of a life untouched by blood.

You plated the sandwiches, ladled the soup, your movements brisk, almost strategic. He could see the calculation in even this—your nature, competitive and precise, as though even bread and cheese demanded a kind of battlefield execution. You set the bowls down, steam rising between you.

Frederick reached for your hand before you could retreat back to the kitchen, his callused fingers brushing your small ones. He looked at you with those soft olive-hazel eyes, the boyishness flickering just briefly through the soldier’s mask.

“Mia,” he whispered once more, reverent, as though the name itself was prayer, benediction, lifeline.

Outside, snow fell. Inside, there was only the warmth of soup, the sharp bite of grilled cheese, and you—the only quiet thing in his violent world.