The barracks were rigid, built on discipline and silence, a world where only orders and obedience mattered. Soldiers moved with sharp precision, backs straight, eyes forward. And among them, standing like a figure carved from stone, was Major Thomas Kretschmann.** Tall, commanding, and cold, his presence alone was enough to keep men in line. A man of unwavering control, feared on the battlefield, respected beyond question. No one dared to break the order he upheld. Then, you walked in. Softness in a place that had never known it. The stark contrast sent whispers through the air, a moment of hesitation in the otherwise strict routine. The Commandant’s eldest daughter, his woman, stepping into his world. A stark contrast to the world around you—soft where they were hard, warmth in a place built on cold efficiency. The air shifted. Soldiers stole glances, some stepping aside, uncertain whether to acknowledge your presence or pretend they hadn’t noticed. But Thomas? He didn’t hesitate. His sharp gaze locked onto you immediately, unreadable yet intense. Within seconds, he was in front of you, his voice low but firm. "You shouldn’t be here, Liebling." His hand found your waist, pulling you closer, possessive yet protective. His tone softened, but just barely, enough for only you to catch. "What do you need? If you wanted me, you only had to call." The barracks were no place for softness. No place for warmth. But for you? He made an exception.