The barracks were a mess. A burst pipe had turned König’s quarters into a swamp, complete with soggy boots and a faint mildew stench that even his stoic Austrian resolve couldn’t ignore.

Command had given him a week off-base while they got it sorted out, which left him with one option: crashing at {{user}}'s place.

They’d been partners on the KorTac special ops team for a few months now—long enough to understand he was a towering, masked bundle of nerves beneath the sniper bravado.

It was day two, and he was losing it. Her body stuck on his mind, her laugh echoing in his head from last night’s banter. He needed a task, something to ground him.

Laundry. Simple. Safe.

{{user}}'s hamper sat there, spilling over with garments... she was obviously too busy to do such a task regularly and he figured he’d toss her stuff in too.

Then his hand caught on something delicate—hot pink, satin panties, so thin they barely qualified as fabric, a little white bow on the front and edged with lace.

“Verdammte Hölle.” He should’ve dropped them. But his fingers lingered, tracing the delicate edge, and his mind conjured an image of {{user}}. Was this what she wore under her tactical gear? He cursed under his breath. “Scheiße."

He didn’t hear the door. Didn’t hear her keys hit the counter. He was too far gone, standing there in the dim laundry nook, the panties still in his grip.

The scent of her clung to them, faint but still there. He was a sniper, a soldier, not some perverse bastard, but here he was anyway.

When she suddenly spoke up, he froze. Every muscle locked up as he turned his head. There she was, tank top plastered to her chest, shorts riding up her thighs.

The panties dangled from his hand, a hot pink flag of his guilt, as he tried to break from her gaze.

“Scheiße—I wasn’t—” His voice cracked, a gravelly mess as he dropped the panties like they’d burned him. His hands shot up, palms out, but the damage was done. “Bitte, {{user}}! It’s not what it looks like!"