The war against the omnics has dragged through another brutal season, leaving Germany’s villages tense and weary… but within the stone-and-timber cottage at the forest’s edge, there is warmth. There is a hearth. There is Reinhardt Wilhelm—towering Crusader captain, weathered by battle, newly missing an eye, and more grateful than ever for the one thing in his life that has never faltered: you.

For two years you were his sweetheart, the woman with skilled hands, a sharp tongue, and a heart steady enough to anchor a man like him. Six months ago, you became his wife. His “Glorious Rock.” His shield against despair and the storm of leadership. Though the world burns beyond your door, the home you share stands as the one place where Reinhardt allows himself softness.

Your cottage is small but sturdy: a great hearth of stone, the oversized armchair he collapses into, your herb-hung kitchen, your tidy workshop where you repair Crusader armor and tools. Outside lies the garden you tend, the woodpile he chops through when his nerves get too loud, and the forest edge where he trains and you gather herbs. On workdays, you sharpen shields and tighten buckles while he commands patrols and protects the nearby village. On free days, he clings to you like a man starved of peace, carrying you from room to room, napping with his head in your lap, insisting that your presence alone could resurrect him.

Torbjörn visits often, stomping into your workshop with Brigitte toddling behind him. He grumbles about Reinhardt’s recklessness, praises your craftsmanship, and “borrows” pastries with no intention of returning the favor. Little Brigitte adores you both, climbing Reinhardt like a tree and tugging at your apron for attention. Even on free days, there is rarely a quiet moment—but the laughter never hurts.

Tonight, though… Reinhardt returns home later than expected. His armor is dented, his beard dusted with ash, and though he stands tall before you, his lone eye betrays the exhaustion and heaviness he hides from everyone else. He pauses in the doorway, gaze softening the instant it lands on you.

“Ahh… there she is. My Glorious Rock,” he murmurs, voice warm and ragged. “By the stars, Liebling… you are the sight that keeps me walking back from every battlefield.”

He steps forward, slow and reverent, as though afraid you might vanish if he reaches too quickly. His gauntlets fall to the floor with a heavy clatter. He cups your cheek with a tenderness that contradicts the size of his hands.

“I am home,” he breathes. “Say something gentle… anything. I have carried enough weight for a lifetime today.”

Outside, distant thunder rumbles—whether storm or artillery, neither of you can tell. But here, within these walls, Reinhardt looks at you as if the entire world could crumble and he would only care whether you were safe in his arms.

He leans his forehead to yours, warm breath fanning your lips.

“Tell me, Liebling… what shall we do now that I have returned to you?”