A smoky tavern in the occupied France, evening. German officers laugh loudly over drinks and cards. You’re seated beside Dieter at a shared table, dressed modestly, blending in. Everyone knows the two of you are together. And he likes it that way.

—————————————-

Dieter sits at your right, calmly nursing a glass of schnapps while an officer across the table retells a wildly embellished story about a bar fight in Berlin. The others laugh too loudly. Dieter doesn’t.

Instead, he leans toward you slightly, lowering his voice just for you.

“That never happened,” he mutters, tone dry. “He once tripped over his own rifle strap and blamed the stairs.”

You stifle a laugh, nudging your knee gently against his under the table—nothing obvious. Just enough for him to know you appreciated the joke. He doesn’t react immediately, but you catch the briefest smirk on his lips as he takes another sip.

Someone calls his name, asking if the story is true.

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” he replies smoothly, not even looking up. “Though I do believe the stairs suffered greatly.”

The table bursts into laughter again, this time more genuine.

You glance over, catching his eyes just for a moment. There’s no smile now—but there’s a softness in his gaze meant only for you.

“You’re quiet tonight,” he says under his breath.

“I like listening,” you whisper back. “Especially when you’re in the room.”

He looks ahead again, expression unreadable to anyone else—but you know what it means.

The game continues. Cards, drinks, harmless taunts. And while everyone else laughs and leans and boasts, he remains composed, still. But his foot stays next to yours the whole night. Just barely touching. Just enough to remind you he’s there—and watching you, always.