the barracks are loud before you even push the door open — boots striking wood, lockers slamming, men talking over each other as they come back from training. damp wool and soap hang in the air. someone’s laughing too hard in the corner, another is already halfway out of his uniform, suspenders loose at his hips.

then you step inside with the basket.

it’s immediate.

“ah, look who saves us.”

heads turn. the noise shifts, brightens. a few of the mid-to-late twenties soldiers straighten instinctively, running hands through flattened hair. one of the younger ones nearly trips over a trunk trying to get to you first.

your brother reaches you in three strides, still flushed from the cold. he takes the basket with a sigh that’s more fond than irritated.

“schwesterlein,” he mutters, low enough just for you. “you shouldn’t carry all this alone.”

“you say that every time.”

behind him, an older soldier leans against a bunk, arms crossed, grin slow and easy. “did she bring the apple cake? tell me she brought the apple cake.”

another voice: “move aside. let the national treasure through.”

there’s mock outrage when you hand the first roll to someone other than the loudest volunteer. a chorus of groans. one man clutches his chest dramatically. “betrayal. after everything we’ve endured.”

“you endured marching,” someone shoots back.

they crowd without crowding — careful not to overwhelm, but close enough to feel included. someone drags over a crate for you to sit on. another brushes sawdust off it first. your brother hovers like he doesn’t, but he does.

for a little while, the barracks don’t feel like a military building.

just a room full of tired young men, laughing too loud over homemade cake, grateful for something warm that didn’t come from the mess hall.

and every time you leave, they ask when you’re coming back.