After a difficult operation, König almost always disappeared.

After a battle, something pre-war stirred inside him. A reflex that had formed long before he learned to turn his own withdrawn nature into an advantage, something embedded in him deeper than discipline, deeper than fear.

It was far easier for him to endure the pain in his muscles, the dried blood soaked into his uniform, and the dull tension in his joints than someone else’s presence beside him. People demanded a reaction, even when they remained silent, and he knew far too well how much could be heard in a single careless glance, especially one directed at him, the colonel of the unit. So he didn’t return with the others, didn’t linger in the common room, didn’t stop by the bar, and didn’t message anyone. He preferred to make his way to his barracks, close the door behind him, and let the silence gradually drive out everything that, just a few hours earlier, had been necessary for survival.

But this time, something went wrong.

He realized it back at the base, when he began removing his tactical vest after returning and suddenly found that his fingers didn’t immediately obey their familiar movements. The carabiner, which usually came undone almost automatically, had to be unfastened on the second attempt, while the strap remained caught between his fingers for several seconds, as though his hands had forgotten what to do next. It wasn’t like the exhaustion he knew too well to mistake for anything else. Exhaustion brought heaviness to his muscles, made his shoulders sag and his eyes close, but it didn’t leave behind this strange, unpleasant tension inside him, something he couldn’t find a name for and that seemed to exist separately from him.

The shower made things a little easier, if only because there was no need to look at anyone or speak to anyone, and the sound of the water drowned out everything else well enough.

He stood beneath the hot stream longer than usual, until the traces of dust, sweat, and someone else’s blood disappeared from his skin. Yet the feeling he’d come here to wash away remained. Something else had returned from the operation with him, lodged somewhere inside and now hidden too well to be simply washed away, shaken out of his clothes, or left behind with his equipment in the armory.

When he finally turned off the water, the shower immediately became unnaturally quiet. He braced his palms against the wall for several minutes, lowered his head, and felt the cold tiles against his forehead as he tried to bring his breathing back to its usual rhythm. Although he understood perfectly well that it had stopped being about breathing a long time ago, and that no amount of time spent under the shower would change anything.

For some reason, he didn’t want to be alone tonight.

The thought appeared so unexpectedly that he almost immediately tried to get rid of it.

In the end, he came up with a reason.

He needed to collect the reports.

You had taken them with you yesterday to make some corrections, and you probably hadn’t returned them yet. Nothing unusual, nothing that would warrant leaving his room at this hour, but the thought was convenient enough to latch onto. Fully aware of how ridiculous his own reasoning was, he still stepped into the corridor.

On the way, he repeatedly convinced himself that he really was going for the reports. Yet the closer he got to the door he was looking for, the less convincing that explanation sounded. He could collect them in the morning or simply ask someone else to do it. Only one circumstance refused to fit into any of those perfectly reasonable possibilities.

For some reason, he needed to see you specifically.

Standing in front of your room, he felt the urge to turn around for the first time that evening.

For several seconds, he simply stood there, staring at the door behind which you were probably already asleep or occupied with something entirely unrelated to him. For the first time in many years, he found himself in a situation where neither experience, discipline, nor his habit of acting quickly could tell him the right thing to do.

He raised his hand, preparing to knock, but stopped before touching the door.

Because by now, the reports had definitively ceased to be the reason.

He clenched his hand into a fist, lowered it, and stared at the door for several seconds, feeling irritation slowly rising inside him.

Look at what he’d come to.

He knew the price of attachment better than he should have to ever treat it lightly. A person you began to grow attached to eventually became someone whose presence you noticed. Their absence, too. Eventually, they became a weak point. Something you couldn’t leave behind a locked door, no matter how badly you wanted to. Something that would inevitably be used against you one day, even if unintentionally.

He couldn’t understand how he’d allowed someone to get too close. How he’d grown accustomed to your voice, to the possibility that you might simply appear beside him when he hadn’t asked for it. Now, instead of locking himself in his room and pulling himself together, he was standing in the middle of the corridor like a complete idiot, trying to come up with a respectable reason to knock.

He should have stopped this earlier.

It had been easier without you. Much easier. No one had ever become someone he instinctively searched for with his eyes after returning. No one had ever managed to make him feel that his familiar silence had suddenly become too empty, demanding to be filled.

He hated losing control.

Even more, he hated realizing that he’d handed it over to someone himself, without even noticing when it happened.

He could turn around now and return to his room.

Only it was too late.

He was already here.

Since he’d allowed himself to come, retreating now would be even more foolish.

Slowly, he raised his hand and knocked on the door with his knuckles. Two short knocks, without the caution he’d been preparing to use a minute earlier.

The door opened. He froze for a moment when his eyes met yours.

He’d expected to see a sleepy face, disheveled hair, anything that would allow him to maintain some distance. But your damp hair from the shower and ordinary home clothes somehow only made him more aware of how out of place he looked here in the middle of the night.

He forced himself not to linger on the sight.

His hands sank deeper into his pockets, his fingers tightening inside them to conceal the tension. His shoulders remained slightly drawn in, the result of a habit of keeping himself composed when he wanted to do the exact opposite.

“You didn’t turn in the reports yesterday,” he said, his voice lower than usual, calm, almost dry. The sentence sounded rehearsed, as though he’d prepared it in advance, running it through his mind several times on the way here to ensure he wouldn’t say anything unnecessary. “I’m here for them.”

He looked at you directly from beneath the edge of his hood, without averting his eyes, even though he already understood perfectly well how pathetic the excuse sounded.

You remained silent.

He knew exactly where you were looking: at his hands hidden in his pockets, at his tense shoulders, at the eyes he was deliberately keeping indifferent.

Of course, you’d figured it out.

You stepped aside, clearing the way. He tensed almost imperceptibly before stepping forward, as though giving himself one last opportunity to leave, only to destroy it himself.

You raised an eyebrow.

“At three in the morning?”

He gave a slight shrug, as though dismissing the obviousness of the situation.

“You didn’t turn them in on time,” he shot back, blaming you as he walked past in an entirely matter-of-fact manner.

Without asking permission, he sat down on the couch, dropping his hands heavily onto his knees.

The warmth of the room was almost tangible. So soft, unfamiliar, and completely unlike the cold impersonality of his own quarters. Your perfume filled the entire space.

He hadn’t intended to stay, but his body seemed to have noticed the difference before his mind could order him to get up.

While you searched for the reports on the desk, shuffling through the papers with unnecessarily rough movements, his gaze returned to you several times despite himself. He was no less angry with himself for that than he was for coming here in the first place.

He wanted to touch you.

Not to demand anything, but simply to make sure that what he would feel beneath his fingers was warm skin, not the fabric of gloves and the cold metal of his equipment.

The desire was ridiculously simple, and precisely for that reason, especially humiliating.

At that moment, you abruptly held out the papers to him, rolling your eyes.

He slowly shifted his gaze to the reports, then to your face. Something resembling irritated satisfaction flickered across his expression. He’d gotten what he needed, but he hadn’t managed to get rid of the reason he’d come.

“That’s all?” you asked, almost offended.

He took the reports slowly, deliberately avoiding your fingers, even though he’d noticed how close they had come. For a fraction of a second, his hand lingered in the air, an almost imperceptible pause that he immediately filled by tightening his grip on the papers.

“Were you expecting something else?” His tone remained sharp, but his eyes lingered on your hand for a moment.

He had to force himself to look away first, already preparing to stand.

You didn’t let him.

“Don’t,” you snapped in disappointment, making no effort to hide your irritation. “You didn’t come here for the reports.”

He remained silent for several seconds.

As far as he was concerned, there was no suitable answer.

Leaning back slightly, he looked at you from beneath his brows. His gaze grew more guarded, the familiar defensive reaction kicking in before he could stop it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Because normal people don’t come for paperwork at three in the morning.”

The corner of his mouth twitched almost imperceptibly, but it wasn’t a smile. More like a brief reaction to how accurately you’d hit the mark.

“I’m not normal,” he observed calmly, emphasizing the point.

He said it almost without emotion. Then, after a brief pause, added more harshly:

“And you know that perfectly well. The whole base does.”

He lowered his gaze to the reports resting on his knees but didn’t open them. The papers had suddenly become completely useless.

You continued looking at him.

“Then why did you come?”

He raised his head.

Now, finally, the question was difficult.

You didn’t back down. You weren’t afraid of his gaze or his presence so unnaturally close. You made no attempt to soften your words, not even slightly.

It threw him violently off balance, a feeling so intense it would have surpassed open confrontation.

“Then get the out of here.”

Your exhausted bluntness made something inside him flinch.

He knew that tone. People had spoken to him like that before the army, back when he was a child hiding beneath the stairs while adults tried to coax him out. Back then, he hadn’t wanted them to lure him out.

Now he did.

And that was what infuriated him most.

“You barged into my room in the middle of the night, you’re talking to me with absolutely no respect, even though I let you in. And I know you didn’t come here for the reports.”

You were demanding an answer, and he hated being backed into a corner, especially when his own actions were the ones that had put him there.

He could have snapped back. Reminded you of his rank, ordered you to stay out of it, redirected the conversation to the reports, and pretended that you were simply overestimating your own importance.

Your words left him momentarily speechless.

It took him time to find the right answer.

“Then why are you asking if you’ve already made up your mind?”

There was genuine harshness in his voice, but none of its usual threat. It was more like one last attempt to keep the conversation within territory he could safely control.

“And don’t call me a liar,” he added more quietly.

“I didn’t want to be alone.”

The answer came almost immediately.

Simple to the point of being painful.

“Why?”

The question needed no clarification. It contained everything at once: irritation, distrust, and a request for him to finally stop hiding behind convenient excuses.

He was accustomed to answering questions when they concerned orders, operations, and facts. But here, there was nothing he could break down into points and close with a brief report.

“Fang nicht an...” he muttered hoarsely.

Don’t start.

He could see that you still hadn’t moved away, and that deprived him of his last convenient excuse. If you’d been frightened, pushed him away, and demanded that he leave, he could have hidden behind the familiar distance again.

But you were standing there, looking straight at him.

He looked away for just a second, clenching his jaw.

It infuriated him that the answer was so simple and, at the same time, so impossible to say aloud.

He ran his tongue along the inside of his cheek, holding back the words that were coming so painfully.

“Because after today, I didn’t want to go back to my room,” he admitted at last.

He returned his gaze to your face. His voice remained restrained, but there was a roughness to it now, one final effort to keep under control something he wasn’t accustomed to showing.

“Don’t make me explain something I don’t even understand myself,” he breathed through clenched teeth. “I wouldn’t be able to find the right words anyway.”

A lie.

Not entirely, but enough for him to recognize it himself.

“Then what do you want from me?” you asked, still irritated, though something cautious had now begun to surface in your voice.

He exhaled sharply through his teeth, squeezing his eyes shut in humiliation.

“Scheiße...”

.

He turned away abruptly, as though enduring a bullet would have been easier than meeting your eyes at that moment.

For several seconds, he said nothing, trying to gather his usual composure back together.

It didn’t work.

The words caught in his throat. They seemed humiliating, far too exposed, and that only made him angrier.

“I want you to...”

He cut himself off, frowned, and dragged a hand over his face.

“Verdammt.”

Goddammit.

He raised his eyes again.

His gaze remained heavy, but the former sharpness was gone. In its place was a poorly concealed need, one he clearly considered a weakness.

“Touch me,” he managed, the words coming out almost brokenly, with an unfamiliar rasp in his voice, as though he had to drag each one out of himself by force.

“Just... stay with me.”

The last sentence came out more quietly.

He let his head fall back against the couch, unable to bear his own honesty, and added, almost angrily, as though trying to force his words back into their former harshness:

“I don’t need anything else.”