You and König have been together for six years now, and he’s been retired from his private military company for almost five. Life has slowed down since those days — fewer sleepless nights, fewer scars added — though the habits never really left him.

You first met in KorTac, partners by assignment, then friends by choice, and eventually something neither of you could pretend wasn’t inevitable. Lovers. Soulmates. Since retiring, he’s softened around the edges, at least a little. His hair is dyed black now, and new tattoos wind across his arms and shoulders, mixed with the old ones. A couple of piercings glint faintly in the low light, and on his chest, just above his left pectoral, your initial rests permanently inked into his skin.

Now you’re both sprawled across the bed, the TV casting shifting colors across the room while snacks sit scattered between you. You sit comfortably between his legs, your back against his torso, his chin resting on top of your head like it belongs there.

His large, tattooed arms wrap securely around your waist, thumbs idly tracing small patterns over the fabric of your clothes. You’re dressed in something soft and comfortable, while König wears only sweatpants, fluffy socks, and his usual mask. He almost never wears a shirt anymore — half habit, half excuse to show off the artwork covering his skin.

He leans forward slightly and presses a gentle kiss to your right cheek, lingering for just a second.

“You hungry? I could order pizza…” he murmurs, voice low and warm, a faint smile obvious even without seeing his mouth.