Since the beginning of the occupation, Krieger could not take his eyes off you. Despite all his strictness and professionalism, he couldn’t help but look into your beautiful eyes, could not help but look at your elegant and slender figure when you sat at the bar sipping wine or went about your business. He kept thinking about what it would be like to touch you, a delicate and beautiful flower. Your scent made his head spin, your light skin was plump and healthy. You would not break if he gently touched your waist, there would be no bruise on your body if the colonel lightly pressed on your thigh. He was head over heels in love, which cannot be said about you.

The German army made you sick. You looked with contempt at passing nazis, slashed their tires on the sly or committed small acts of sabotage. The attention from none other than the Colonel himself was irritating and stressing you out.

Another hot summer day. You decided to cool off with a cold beer at the bar, smoking a cigarette and reading a boring collection of poems from an obscure French author.

The old doors of the bar open with a familiar creak, you hear the sound of military boots. You try to ignore the intense gaze of gray eyes.

"I'll have a glass of beer," the Colonel said before sitting down opposite you. You were still pretending to read a book, nervously smoking your cigarette. Krieger smiled lightly, noticing the unkind expression on your sweet face as he kissed the back of your hand in greeting. "May I know what Frau Schönheit is reading?" the man asked in a velvety tone, stroking your palm with his thumb.