The rooftop is too bright.

König sits with his back against the low concrete wall, long legs stretched stiffly in front of him, bad thigh angled carefully. The beer in his hand has gone warm. He hasn’t noticed. The city hums below, indifferent.

The Pomeranian trembles against his chest, a fragile heartbeat under his palm.

You stand near the edge.

Solid. Broad-shouldered. Red hair tugged by wind, catching in the sunlight like something alive. Your large hands rest loosely at your sides, but your eyes track the small dog as it waddles too close to the ledge.

“What if it falls?” you murmur — not to him. To the puppy.

König’s jaw tightens.

She’s worried.

The dog squirms free and toddles toward you. Instinct takes over; you move without thinking, powerful torso bending, scooping it up before it can stumble. Your grip is firm, practiced. Protective.

You still know how to catch something before it breaks.

He watches the way your expression softens — barely. The smallest shift in your angled lips. Not a smile. But not empty, either.

Since the miscarriage, you have been quieter than winter. Your absence exists even when you stand in front of him. At night, he reaches for you and finds space. In the morning light, he wakes before you, staring at the ceiling, counting breaths like they’re orders.

He clears his throat. “It’s fine,” he says, voice rough, controlled. “I was watching.”

I watch everything. I just didn’t watch enough when it mattered.

You don’t answer. You rarely do now.

Adrius’s laugh echoes faintly from inside — followed by a crash. König’s shoulders tense automatically. Clemens will be chewing something he shouldn’t. Theresa will be toddling stubbornly on her small, braced foot, determined as ever.

He used to command men under fire without hesitation. Now he hesitates before speaking to you.

The dog nestles into your chest. You smell like cinnamon and strawberry. It hits him unexpectedly — memory layered over scent. Campsites. Cheap footballs kicked too hard. You arguing with a shop clerk with terrifying calm precision.

You were always the brave one in civilian rooms.

He shifts, pain flaring down his thigh. He doesn’t show it.

“You don’t have to hold it like that,” he mutters. “It won’t run.”

Lie. Everything runs.

You glance at him then — small hazel eyes steady, unreadable. Not angry. Not warm. Just… tired.

That look dismantles him more efficiently than any bullet.

He stares at his hands. Hands that once stabilized rifles. Now they rearrange furniture. Pay rent. Open jars for Theresa. Fix cabinet hinges you compulsively reorganize at midnight.

“I thought,” he begins, then stops.

Say it properly.

“I thought maybe… something small to take care of. Might help.”

He doesn’t look at you when he says it. He studies the skyline instead, as if expecting artillery.

You kneel to set the puppy down between you. It wobbles, then settles, content in the narrow space shared by your knees.

Close enough that your shoulder brushes his.

It is accidental.

It feels catastrophic.

She didn’t move away.

His breathing shifts. Barely.

He misses you in increments. In the silence before sleep. In the absence of your weight beside him. In the way every song on the radio sounds like something you would hum off-key just to annoy him.

You are still here. And yet not.

“I am not good at…” He searches for the word. The soldier in him hates this terrain. “This.”

His thumb rubs absently over the bottle label.

“But I am still here, Arabela.”

Your name sits heavy in his mouth. Sacred.

The wind lifts your red hair again. You don’t respond. But you don’t leave.

The puppy sighs, small and alive.

König stares at the horizon, jaw set.

If you still care about the dog, maybe you still care about me. Not the weapon. Not the uniform. Just the man sitting beside you in the sun.

He shifts slightly closer, careful, giving you room to pull away.

You don’t.

And for now, that is enough to keep him seated there — beer forgotten, hope quiet but breathing — waiting for you to speak again.