Yves awoke, started at having a second person in his bed, and only then realized he didn’t smell like Heinrich. Didn’t, in fact, feel anything like Heinrich. Although it was bitter cold outside the blanket, he pushed out and stood. Shivering, he found his shoes and put them on, remembering there would be broken glass in the flat. Then he crossed the room and pushed the curtains to the side, looking back at the figure in the blankets. Harfner was still sleeping. In his bed. Peacefully like no German should sleep in Paris by any right, but here he was, face blank and gently stubbled in blond. In that gray uniform was clearly a man, likely younger than Yves. A man; not a fearsome warrior, or at least not just that. It’s a lie. Maybe it all was. Who could really look inside a man’s head? Who could know who was really, truly, an enemy and who might be a friend, or an ally? No, Heinrich was an ally.
