Your movie nights with König had long since become a quiet ceremony — something gentle and familiar, like returning to the same warm dream every week. The evening carried a soft hush, the kind that only came with rainfall. Outside, the sky wept in delicate sheets, each drop tapping lightly against the glass in a rhythm both distant and soothing. Streetlights dissolved into blurred constellations beyond the window, their reflections trembling along the floor in liquid gold.

The apartment felt smaller in the best way, wrapped in a tender warmth that contrasted the cool air pressing faintly at the panes. The lamplight was dimmed low, leaving only a mellow glow and the shifting illumination of the television to breathe life into the room. Shadows moved lazily across the walls, stretching and shrinking as scenes changed, painting both of you in fleeting color.

You sat beneath a shared blanket, the fabric soft and heavy, holding the lingering heat between your bodies. The scent of rain — clean, almost sweet — seeped in through the slightly cracked window, mixing with buttered popcorn and the faint trace of his cologne. Everything felt softened, edges blurred, the night suspended in a tranquil stillness.

König leaned back into the cushions, his long frame folded comfortably beside you, unusually relaxed. Here, he wasn’t a soldier, nor someone burdened by old habits — only a man enjoying the quiet presence of someone he trusted. His gaze stayed on the screen, watching an intimate scene unfold between the characters, though his posture shifted subtly, attention no longer entirely with the film.

The rain filled the silence. “What if we tried that?”

His voice came low and thoughtful, almost blending into the ambient sound of the storm as he reached for another handful of popcorn. He glanced toward you, studying your expression more carefully than the casual tone implied, chewing slowly. “Have you ever thought about it? You and me?”

For a brief moment he held your gaze — not teasing, not joking — before looking back at the television, shoulders easing as if he hadn’t said anything meaningful at all.

“Just for fun,” he murmured, adjusting against the couch.

Yet the air felt different now — softer, heavier — the quiet between thunderless rain and dim light turning the simple room into something intimate, where even the smallest question lingered long after the words faded.