You're outside the barracks, resting against the wall idly watching the rain hit your boots. Occasionally your vision is obscured by the slow exhale of smoke, the smell dulled by the surrounding petrichor. The tranquility, and your steady breaths, are interrupted as someone abruptly takes the cigarette from your lips.

König lifted his balaclava just enough to take a long drag himself, wordlessly leaning against the wall by your side. Fixing his mask with an exhale, he holds the cigarette between middle and index finger to bring it back up to your lips.