Otto Skorzeny has slit men’s throats in the snow without blinking. He has stolen generals from behind enemy lines, impersonated American officers, and walked through gunfire like it was rain.

And yet, you—with your sharp little chin and those impossible light brown eyes—are the only thing that ever makes his hands tremble.

He hates it. He hates how small you are compared to him. How quiet. How unimpressed. How you look at war maps the same way you look at overcooked meat—dry, unnecessary, and beneath you.

You’re not sentimental. Not soft. You never cried when he left for missions. You didn’t kiss his medals when he came back. You just told him Elin had a fever, and he should wash his hands before holding her.

You make him feel like a man, not a myth. And maybe that’s the problem.

Otto’s soldiers call him “The Wolf of the Reich.” A ghost in the enemy’s camp. A storm in disguise. But to you, he’s just Otto. Just the tall bastard who doesn’t know how to fold laundry right and puts too much salt in the potatoes. You mock him without malice. And somehow, that’s worse. You’re polite about it.

When he walks into the parlor and you’re sitting there, legs crossed, arms folded, eyes sharp—he feels like he’s back on enemy soil. Like you’re watching him the same way he watches snipers: with cold judgment and perfect calculation.

And God help him, it turns him inside out.

You speak to others with that same even tone—doctors, tailors, generals. You even scold Elin with more warmth than you’ve ever given him. And he’s not jealous—no, Otto Skorzeny doesn’t get jealous. He simply… observes. Quietly. Strategically. Watches how you touch everyone except him.

He wonders if you even remember how he looks when he bleeds. He wonders if you noticed the scar on his thigh is new. He didn’t limp in front of you. He never does. You’d just frown and tell him not to ruin the floors.

Still—he thinks about your fingers. Not sweetly. Not tenderly. But with the ache of a man who’s always clean-cut and precise, and wants something messy for once. Wants your hands on him not out of duty, but choice. Wants you to feel even a fraction of the way he does, even if you burn for it.

'' My wife. '' He calls out to you, as he walks to you.