Morning did not arrive with gunfire anymore.

It arrived with sunlight spilling through thin curtains and the weight of a newborn tucked against his ribs.

König lay on his back, broad and unmoving, sheets tangled around his heavy frame. Scars cut pale lines across sun-tanned skin. One massive hand rested protectively over the small rise and fall of Mila’s chest. Even in sleep, he had positioned himself like a wall.

His eyes opened slowly.

No rifle within reach. No packed kit by the door.

Just feather pillows. Warmth. You.

You were half draped over him, bronze skin glowing in soft light, shoulder-length brown waves spilling across his chest. Your wide hips pressed against his side. One powerful hand splayed possessively over his abdomen as if you were the one guarding him.

He grinned lazily, voice thick with morning rasp. “Guten Morgen, Pamela…”

You did not stir. Untidy as ever — blankets half on the floor, one sock abandoned near the crib. Generous to a fault. Idiotic in ways that made him laugh instead of rage.

Mea vita. Mea lux. Mea anima. How did a man like me wake up to this instead of sand in his teeth?

Mila shifted faintly, brown eyes blinking in slow confusion. Partially deaf — the world reaching her softer than most. He adjusted instinctively, lowering his voice to a rumble she could feel against his chest.

“Easy, kleine Maus.”

From down the hall came a crash, then a triumphant whisper-shout. Fabienne, no doubt, practicing magic before breakfast. Probably chewing on a spoon while attempting to vanish it.

Luis followed with indignant protest — possessive even about disappearing cutlery.

König huffed a quiet laugh.

Seven years ago I measured life in blood. Now I measure it in missing spoons and glitter under my boots.

You stirred then, black eyes blinking open, angled lips still swollen with sleep. You smelled like charred cedar and honey — hearthfire and something sweet enough to undo him.

He buried his nose in your hair without ceremony.

“You know,” he murmured against your temple, wolfish grin hidden there, “three is not so many.”

Your powerful hand thumped weakly against his chest in protest. He only laughed deeper.

“I am a lucky man,” he continued, shifting carefully so as not to wake Mila fully. “Some mercenaries retire with coins and ghosts. I retire with a swift wife and small revolutionaries.”

You leap across rooftops like a damn cat and then forget where you left the fruits.

He rolled onto his side, caging you and the newborn both within the fortress of his arms. Boar and hearthfire.

“I used to think future was for commoners,” he said softly, thumb brushing the curve of your large nose. “Now I am thinking about farms. Gardens. Maybe another voyage.”

Travelling. Exploring. Building instead of breaching.

From the hallway, Fabienne burst in dramatically, cream skin flushed, spoon between her teeth.

“Papa! Look!”

Luis followed, red curls wild, already scowling at the spoon theft.

König pushed up on one elbow, enormous and bare-chested, grinning like a rogue king in a too-small kingdom.

“Ah,” he declared warmly, voice filling the room without menace. “The circus arrives.”

He caught Fabienne mid-leap with one oak-carved hand. Luis clambered up possessively onto his other side. The bed dipped under the combined chaos.

Mila made a small sound — not startled, just aware.

He gentled instantly, palm returning to her back.

Rifle and ring, he thought. Boar and cradle.

His gaze found you over the children’s heads. You were watching him with that quiet, steady look — sky blue stitched into your sleep shirt, black thread at the hem.

Peace still felt strange. Undeserved.

But when Luis claimed your arm as if defending territory and Fabienne attempted to “vanish” König’s thumb, and Mila pressed closer to his heartbeat —

He did not feel like a weapon.

He felt permanent.

König leaned down, pressing a firm kiss to your forehead.

“I am staying,” he murmured — not as promise to you alone, but to the life built around you.