Chapter Text
After Latin, the school courtyard is crowded and loud, boys and girls spilling down the steps in a rush of wool coats and smoke from someone’s stolen cigarette. You and Evey and Lotte are clustered near the wall, books hugged to your chest, talking about nothing in particular.
“Did you see the poster?” Lotte asks, eyes bright. “Café Bismarck, Friday. Swing Youth meeting.”
Evey’s mouth twitches. “I saw. You practically climbed the wall to read it.”
“I did no such thing,” Lotte sniffs, but she’s smiling.
You did see the poster, actually. You’d checked the times twice, lingering longer than necessary just to trace the word swing with your eyes. You know who organised it. You know who’s going to be there.
“Fräulein Bismarck herself, making plans?”
Thomas’s voice cuts in from behind you. He falls into step beside your group without being invited, as always, grinning like the entire world is an inside joke only he’s in on. Peter hangs a little behind him, hands in his pockets, schoolbag slung carelessly over his shoulder. Arvid and Otto trail after them, a tiny universe of chuckles and elbows.
“Lotte was scaling the building for a better view,” Evey says dryly.
You love her for that, the way she never leaves a girl undefended. Thomas clutches his chest.
“Scaling it? For a poster?” He turns to Lotte, eyes gleaming. “Careful, they’ll conscript you into the Wehrmacht if they see such determination.”
Lotte rolls her eyes, cheeks flushing just enough that he notices, and that’s all the fuel he needs.
“You planning to dance or just read the posters?” he presses.
“At least I can read,” she shoots back, lifting her chin. “You barely passed your history exam.”
Arvid snorts. “She’s got you there, Thomas.”
Thomas groans dramatically. “You wound me, Lotte. Tell you what, to prove my devotion to education, I’ll escort you to Café Bismarck myself. You can teach me the history of swing.”
Lotte scoffs, but it’s softer at the edges. “You can’t even manage the steps without stepping on people.”
He grins. “Is that a challenge?”
Their bickering spins its usual orbit, bright and easy, like a little show everyone’s seen before and still enjoys watching.
You stand just to the side, books pressed a bit too tight against your ribs, letting the sound wash over you.
You always wish, secretly, that Thomas would throw some of that teasing your way. That any of them would. That Peter, who is right there, gaze flicking up through his lashes as Evey speaks, would say something, anything, aimed directly at you, not just the space you’re occupying as Evey’s friend.
Look at me, you think, ridiculous and childish and desperate.
He doesn’t.
“You going?” Evey asks, nodding toward Peter, her tone deceptively casual.
Peter shrugs one shoulder, but there’s a spark in his eyes he can’t quite hide. “Maybe. Depends on if Thomas can drag himself away from his homework.”
“The homework of charming every girl in Hamburg?” Evey asks.
Thomas gasps like he’s been slandered in the town square. “Fräulein Evey, you wound me as well. Will no one here acknowledge my suffering?”
“We acknowledge it,” you say, finally slipping into the current of conversation. “We just don’t pity you.”
Peter laughs. It’s a real laugh – quick and warm. It hits you like a spotlight, and you freeze, stupidly proud of yourself for making him laugh at all.
He glances at you, a little, and for half a second you feel seen.
Then Evey adds, “It’s self-inflicted,” and his attention swings back to her like it’s on a hinge.
Of course.
“Are you going?” he asks Evey, and even though the question could include all of you, it doesn’t. Everyone hears the way it’s angled.
“Maybe,” Evey echoes, lips quirking. “Depends on if someone intelligent goes, to even things out.”
You smile like your heart isn’t cracking down an old, familiar fault line.
Lotte rustles her books. “We should be going. My mother will murder me if I’m late again.”
The conversation shifts, people drift, the moment dissolves. You walk home with Evey, and she doesn’t bring it up. She doesn’t have to. You both heard it. You both saw the way he looked at her when he said you.
You hate that a part of you still thinks about how you’d take it. All of it. Even if it was only ever teasing aimed at you, you’d still take it, if it meant he was looking.
——
Café Bismarck on Friday is too smoky and too loud and exactly where you want to be.
The air is thick with cigarette haze and brass. Someone’s pilfered American records are spinning, the band joining in, trying to chase that wild, bouncing sound that feels like it shouldn’t be allowed in this city anymore. Boys in shirtsleeves and girls in bright dresses fill the space, skirts flaring, heels scuffing the wooden floor.
You and Evey claim a small table near the wall. It’s half-hidden behind a pillar, not quite tucked away, but just removed enough that no one will stumble into you by accident.
And Peter Müller is here.
You’re painfully aware of that in the way your palms sweat against the glass you’re holding, the way your feet jitter along to the swing beat even when you’re not on the floor. There’s a mess of people between you and him, but you always know exactly where he is.
Because you’re looking. Constantly.
And, annoyingly, so is he.
Just… not at you.
“Stop staring, you’re going to burn a hole in the back of his head,” Evey mutters next to you, lifting her beer to her lips.
You drag your eyes away from Peter’s profile. The light catches the line of his nose, the curve of his mouth, that stupid soft hair that won’t lie flat. You turn back to Evey and attempt a shrug that, in your head, looks casual and glamorous.
“Wasn’t staring,” you say.
“You’ve been staring since the record changed,” she says calmly. “That was two songs ago.”
You groan and let your head fall to her shoulder. “Why’d you bring me here if not to watch me publicly humiliate myself?”
“Because I’m a fantastic friend,” she says brightly. “And because Lotte strong-armed us into it, and because you said, and I quote, ‘if he’s going to be there, I’m going to be there’ like you were marching into battle.”
“Well, Lotte hasn’t made an appearance since Klaus Metzger whisked her away,” you grumble, “and now, emotionally, I’m the one suffering in the trenches.”
She rolls her eyes. “Leave her be. Klaus is tall and has nice hair. Maybe if she dances with him long enough, she’ll forget about bickering with Thomas Berger for once.”
“Not possible.” You mumble. “Bickering with Thomas is inevitable.”
She huffs a laugh, flicking the strap on your shoulder. “Besides. You’re suffering in a very pretty dress. So, at least you look good.”
You roll your eyes and straighten up, taking another tiny, nervous sip. By the tables, Arvid is half-lecturing Otto about something, gesticulating as he speaks.
“Look at Thomas,” Evey says, nodding toward the dance floor.
You do, because you can’t help it. Thomas has already found a girl you’ve never seen before, a blonde in a blue dress. He doesn’t even bother with introductions. One minute he’s standing beside Peter, the next he’s catching the girl’s hand like they’ve rehearsed this in another life, pulling her into the swirl of bodies.
He’s not as good as he thinks he is, but he’s fearless, and that counts for more tonight.
You watch them swing out, swing back, laughing. The girl’s hair flies, her dress spins. She doesn’t stop smiling.
“That poor girl,” you say, but you can’t help smiling too.
“She looks like she’s having fun,” Evey says.
“She doesn’t know him yet.”
Evey huffs a laugh, then leans back in her chair, eyeing the dancers with a critical gaze you recognize – you both share it. That mix of longing and analysis, trying to decode every step.
“You know,” she says after a moment, “you don’t need a partner to dance.”
“I know,” you say automatically, fingers tracing the rim of your glass.
“You could just go out there,” she continues. “People do that. Half the floor are just… trying things. You don’t need someone to–”
“That’s not it,” you cut in, more quickly than you mean to.
She glances at you, eyebrows lifting. You drop your eyes to the tablecloth, suddenly very interested in a stain near your elbow.
“I just… don’t feel like it tonight,” you say, softer. “And you’re not dancing either, so…”
“So, you’re going to martyr yourself in a chair beside me?” she asks, but there’s no bite to it.
You look up at her, at the way her mouth presses together like she’s worried you’re lying.
“You’re my friend,” you say simply. “If you want to sit, I can sit with you. I don’t mind watching. I can listen to the music just as well from here.”
That part is true. The music is everywhere – under your skin, in your ribs, making your foot keep time against the floor. You can feel it, even if you never leave the chair.
“Well, still… I shouldn’t hold you back,” Evey says, still frowning, eyes back on the crowd.
“You’re not,” you insist. “If I wanted to dance, I’d dance. I like it here.”
You do, in a way. You like the way the music rolls over you, the way you can sit and observe, unseen. You like that Evey’s beside you, solid and familiar.
What you don’t like is the way your eyes keep drifting across the floor, drawn to one person like you’re attached by string.
Peter’s standing near the edge of the dance floor, just where the crowd thins. Arvid is still beside him and Otto, halfway between laughing about something. The lecturing from him seems to continue – you can tell by the way his hands are still moving. Peter keeps nodding, keeps adjusting his grip on his drink, but his eyes aren’t on Arvid at all.
They’re on the dancers.
He looks like his bones are vibrating.
His foot taps along with the beat, heel bouncing, hand drumming against the side of his glass. He’s doing the steps in place, almost unconsciously, weight shifting, like his body is already on the floor and the rest of him hasn’t caught up.
“Look at Müller,” Evey says wryly. “He’s going to explode if someone doesn’t drag him out there.”
“I’d pay to see that,” you say, but your throat feels tight.
She follows your gaze.
Thomas whirls his blonde partner past Peter, nearly colliding with him. Peter jerks out of the way, laughing, shoves him lightly, but when Thomas spins his partner again and disappears into the crush, Peter’s smile fades.
He scans the room.
Your heart thumps against your ribs, a traitor. It knows better than you should.
You watch his gaze flick past the tables, the couples, the boys leaning against the wall. Searching. Wanting. He shifts his weight again, almost steps forward, then stops himself.
His eyes find your table.
For a second – one sharp, breathless second – you think he’s looking at you.
You’re the one facing him more directly. Evey’s turned partly toward the floor, her profile visible but distant. You’re the one whose eyes have been glued to him since you walked in. Maybe he can feel it. Maybe that’s what he’s been searching for.
His gaze snags. Your lungs seize.
Then he looks just a little to the left. At Evey. Obviously.
You swallow down the stupid ache, force your face into something neutral as his eyes linger on her. The music swings hard into a chorus, trumpets bright and ridiculous, and still he doesn’t move.
He looks nervous. Not nervous like someone who can’t dance – he can, you’ve seen it, he’s quick and sure and light-footed in a way that always shocks you. Nervous like this is a different kind of risk. Like asking her would be harder than getting up in front of the Gestapo and loudly announcing that swing is American.
“Go,” you murmur under your breath, too quiet for anyone to hear. “Ask her.”
He doesn’t.
He looks down at his drink instead, jaw tightening. Arvid says something, claps him on the shoulder. Peter nods, barely hearing him. His eyes flick up again, to the floor, to your table, to Evey, and back down.
He’s not going to do it, you realize, and somehow that hurts too. For her, for you, for everyone wasting their youth being afraid.
“He’s ridiculous,” Evey mutters suddenly. You glance at her, startled. She’s watching him too, a small frown between her brows. “He looks like he’s about to wear a hole in the floor from all that shifting.”
“He wants to dance,” you say.
“You don’t say,” she sighs.
You hesitate, then force yourself to say it aloud, the thing your chest is wrapped around. “He probably wants to dance with you.”
Evey goes very still for a second.
“He’s not looking over here,” she says, lying badly.
You both know what you saw.
You press your fingernails into your palm, grounding yourself. “If he does ask you,” you say, surprising yourself with how steady your voice sounds, “you should say yes.”
Evey’s eyes flick to you. In the dim light, with the jazz climbing higher, she suddenly looks older, more tired around the edges.
She huffs, muttering. “I wouldn’t do that to you.”
You look at her, really look at her. You’ve been friends too long for bitterness. You know she didn’t ask for his gaze any more than you did. She didn’t nudge his chin in her direction, didn’t trick the light into catching in her hair quite so well. She just… is. And if you were in her place, if Peter Müller watched you the way he watches her, you know she’d be sitting here, saying the exact same thing you just did.
You take a breath.
“I’d think I’d mind more if you didn’t dance at all,” you say eventually. “I’d rather sit and listen to the music knowing you’re having fun.”
It’s not the whole truth, but it’s close enough to live with.
Evey’s lips twist. “You’re allowed to want things,” she mutters.
“I do want things,” you say, a bit too quickly. “I want to hear how they get through that sax solo without faking half of it.”
She huffs out a laugh despite herself.
“Besides,” you add, lighter, “I’m much too busy criticizing everyone’s footwork to actually join in. Someone has to sit here and judge.”
“That’s Arvid’s job,” she says, but there’s a softness in her eyes when she looks at you now.
Across the room, like the universe is timing it for maximum cruelty, Peter finally moves.
You see the decision land in his shoulders, in the way he straightens, sets his glass down, wipes his palms on his trousers. He glances once more at your table – at Evey, you tell yourself, at Evey – and then he steps into the stream of dancers.
Your breath catches.
This is it, you think. He’s going to walk over, he’s going to stumble through some awkward attempt at a question, Evey will pretend not to know exactly what he’s doing, and–
He stops halfway.
A girl in a green dress is standing near the edge of the floor – Hilde, you remember, from church once. She’s alone, rocking slightly on her heels, looking like she’s working up the courage to jump in.
Peter says something to her. You can’t hear it over the music, but whatever it is makes her face light up. Her hand flies to her hair, smoothing it nervously, then lowers to take his when he offers it. He leads her onto the floor.
Your stomach drops in a way you’re almost embarrassed by. You’re not sure who you feel more foolish on behalf of – yourself, or the version of you that thought he’d walk all the way across the room.
He didn’t ask Evey. He didn’t ask you. He asked the girl closest to where he ran out of nerve.
“They suit,” Evey says after a moment, voice carefully neutral.
You watch them move – Peter guiding Hilde through the steps, patient but eager, his face finally cracking into that big, unrestrained smile he only gets when the music takes him. Hilde stumbles once, laughs, grips his shoulder tighter. He steadies her, spinning her out, pulling her back in.
“He’s a good lead,” you manage.
“You could keep up,” Evey says.
You shrug, eyes never leaving the floor. “Yes, well. He’s not exactly lining up.”
The words slip out before you can catch them. Evey flinches.
Evey exhales, slow, something like anger and protectiveness mixing in her eyes.
“He’s an idiot. They’re idiots,” she says firmly.
You laugh once, sharp. “That’s been established.”
“I mean it,” she insists. “All of them. Idiots. They spend half their lives talking about girls and can’t manage to notice the one sitting right in front of them.”
You shake your head, but some small, stubborn part of you warms at the heat in her voice.
On the floor, Peter spins Hilde again. As he turns, his gaze skims the room, lands briefly on your corner. Your heart lurches like it’s on strings. His eyes pass over you, over Evey, over your hidden little table. He doesn’t stop.
The song kicks into its final bars, the tempo climbing, and he laughs, focusing back on his partner as they race to keep up. The club roars their approval when the song ends, scattered applause and whoops, someone whistling shrilly.
You clap too, because you can’t not. He’s good. They both are. They look like something from a different world – a freer one, where music is the only law.
Peter thanks Hilde, says something that makes her blush, then steps back, scanning the room again, restless. The band starts the next song. Thomas snatches another partner. Couples re-form, the floor filling once more.
Evey looks at you and squeezes your hand under the table.
“You know,” she says, softer now, “if no one’s ever asked you, that’s not about you. That’s about them being cowards.”
“Maybe,” you say.
You listen to the music, let it seep into your bones. You let yourself imagine, for just one impossible moment, what it would feel like if Peter’s eyes stopped on you and stayed. If he crossed the floor, hand out, voice a little nervous as he said your name, not Evey’s or anyone else’s.
You imagine your fingers in his, your heart in your throat, your feet trying to remember the steps while he grinned that grin just for you. The image is so vivid it hurts. You blink it away.
“Anyway,” you say, squaring your shoulders, “I told you. I like watching. Less opportunity to be stepped on.”
“I’d step on them for you,” Evey says, fierce suddenly.
You grin despite everything. “I know you would.”
Another song begins. The floor churns. Thomas nearly crashes into a table; someone shrieks, laughing. Arvid appears out of nowhere to scold them all for murdering the rhythm. The world keeps spinning, faster and faster, as if it doesn’t know you’re sitting still.
Across the room, Peter moves with the music, a part of that spinning world, always just out of reach.
You sit with your friend in your little corner, listening, watching, wanting.
And you keep your hands folded neatly in your lap, because no one has held one out to pull you into the storm.