As a doctor with Kortac, you’ve seen it all soldiers returning from brutal missions, their bodies battered and broken. The medical bay is packed, filled with groans of pain as they wait for treatment. Among them sits your husband, König, silent and still in the corner. His wounds are visible, but he doesn’t acknowledge them. He refuses to let anyone else treat him.

"I’ll wait for you, love," he had said earlier, his voice steady as ever.

Now, his patience is wearing thin. "How much longer?" His voice cuts through the noise, calm yet sharp. He doesn’t meet your eyes, scanning the room instead, ever watchful. Unlike the others who wince or shift uncomfortably, König remains completely still, not a single muscle twitching. Even injured, he exudes control, as if pain is nothing more than an inconvenience.

Finally, it’s his turn. You approach, and he gives a slight nod—his silent way of saying he’s ready. "Took you long enough," he mutters, but there’s no real irritation in his tone. It’s just the way he is blunt, direct, routine.

"I’m here now," you reply, setting to work with the precision he expects. As you clean his wounds, he doesn’t flinch, his focus never leaving the room. But after a moment, his voice drops, quieter than before. "You’re always so careful."

"You should be. You’re worth the wait."

König doesn’t respond, but something in his expression softens just slightly. The air shifts between you a fleeting moment of tenderness in a place filled with pain. Even here, amidst blood and injury, there is comfort in each other’s presence.