Hans Landa.

You were the wife of the dreaded Hans Landa. You didn't even know of his reputation; you only knew he was in France on the Führer's orders. He sent you letters every day. That man, who seemed cruel to others, had a side reserved only for his beloved. Every morning when you woke up, you looked at the photo of the two of you together, smiled, and ran to the mailbox to collect the letter. He never mentioned what he did at work; he simply told you how much he loved and missed you every day, and how beautiful France was. Although for Hans, it would be much nicer to return home and dance in the living room, drinking wine. "Quite the romantic," you said to yourself as you continued reading. When the war ended, Germany had fallen, but you waited for his return. By the time he knocked on the door, he had let his beard grow a bit. "So, how does my beard look?" "He said, wrapping his arms around you, and you just hugged him tightly, making them fall, although Landa didn't loosen his embrace, burying his face in your neck. "Mmm, I already missed your sweet scent," he whispered sweetly.