So I hadn't done it.
Not even for Klaus.
Definitely not for me.
But now?
This infuriating American wasn't asking for anything. He wasmakingmewantsomething first. That was worse.
So I waited for him.
Every day after that first night, before my shift, I stood outside the American gate as couples passed me: German girls on the arms of soldiers, laughing, well-fed, their hair curled, their dresses new, their stockings un-torn and silky. Some were kissing openly, pressed against lamp posts, their mouths hungry or happy, I couldn't tell which—maybe both.
I knew what they paid.
I knew exactly what they'd given to earn that food, that clothing, that affection.
But God help me, they looked… happy.
That happiness felt like a punch in the stomach.
As I waited under the lantern—flickering against the gathering dusk—a stupid song wormed into my mind and refused to leave.
"Unter der Laterne… bei der Kaserne…
steht eine Lili Marleen…"
—Under the lantern, by the barracks gate, waits a Lili Marleen…
AnOhrenwurm—an earworm. The worst kind. It was cruelly fitting, because Iwasstanding under a lantern, by the barracks gate, waiting for a soldier I had no business wanting.
When I finally saw him, the breath left my lungs. He was unmistakable, even in uniform among a sea of uniforms. The way he walked, straight-backed, sure, like he was born with purpose hammered into his bones. The way he filled out that bomber jacket, broad shoulders blocking the lantern glow behind him, leaving him haloed in warm gold.
My stomach fluttered first.
My heart followed.
"Deine Schritte kennt sie…
deinen schönen Gang"—"She knows your footsteps… your lovely gait."
Oh, this was ridiculous. Both him and the stupid song.
He didn't see me at first. Which was good. Because my lips tingled at the thought of him kissing me, and I needed that madness to stop. Before I did something stupid. Before he asked for his price, and I had no defenses left.
Then his head turned. His eyes found me. And he stopped.
Of course, he didn't walk to me.
He stayed behind the gate.
Coward.
Coward, or careful?
I couldn't decide which would hurt more. So I let my fury carry me.
"You!" I snapped, marching toward the iron bars.
