The key turned once. Twice.

Ritual.

König stepped across the threshold still half armored, boots heavy against wooden floors. The scent hit him first — floral warmth layered with roasted chestnuts and something faintly metallic, like transformer oil. Home.

He exhaled slowly.

Flour hung in the air.

He followed the trail into the kitchen, broad shoulders nearly grazing the doorway. Indiana stood at the counter, tall and coltish in loose aquamarine fabric, honey skin dusted white at the cheek. Short, wavy black hair pinned back carelessly. Glasses slipping down your nose as you leaned over a bowl.

Your tongue stuck out slightly in concentration.

The sight did something quiet and profound to him.

I leave battlefields for this.

You were focused, disinterested in theatrics, stirring with methodical precision. Yellow measuring cups lined up like soldiers awaiting inspection. A competition timer blinked on the counter — because of course, you had turned baking into a contest with yourself.

He stepped closer, heavy boots softened by restraint.

“Maus,” he said, voice still carrying command despite the flour in the air.

You startled.

The bowl slipped.

He moved before the ceramic even tilted fully.

One massive hand caught the bowl mid-fall. The other secured your waist instantly, firm against your long torso, anchoring you as though the floor might vanish.

Flour burst upward like smoke.

He did not release you immediately.

His heart pounded too hard.

Fragile. Always fragile. Look at her, all skin and bones, yet always ready to fight the whole world.

You blinked up at him, hazel eyes wide behind glasses, smooth cheeks streaked in white. Honest confusion. No drama.

“Schatz,” he murmured more softly, setting the bowl back down with surgical precision.

His thumb brushed flour from your chin. You wrinkled your nose faintly, still disinterested in the fuss.

“Are you waging a war against the flour?,” he asked dryly.

But his grip lingered at your waist, grounding.

He noticed everything — the faint tension in your shoulders from hotel repairs, the small burn near your wrist, the scent of chocolate already melting nearby.

“You should have changed before baking,” you said plainly, gaze flicking to the flour now coating his uniform.

He glanced down.

White streaked across olive fabric. Across his gloves. Across the insignia of rank.

A colonel dusted like a confection.

A quiet huff escaped him.

“I will survive,” he replied.

Armor can remain. But this — this is why I return.

He removed one glove at last, flexing broad fingers before gently adjusting your slipping glasses. Careful. Always careful.

“You concentrate like you are diffusing a bomb,” he observed.

You stuck your tongue out again in response, focusing on the timer.

He allowed himself the smallest smile.

“I promised you until death,” he said quietly, almost to himself.

Not dramatic. Not sentimental.

Fact.

His arm slid around you again — not possessive, but anchoring. Lifting slightly so your feet barely skimmed the floor, he shifted you aside from the counter’s edge.

“You forget your surroundings when competing,” he added, voice low near your ear.

And I cannot forget them at all.

He set you down gently. Fortress hands handling porcelain.

Outside, the world remained unpredictable. Missions would come again. Boots would cross thresholds in both directions.

But here — in flour and aquamarine, in roasted chestnut warmth and chocolate impatience — he stood steady.

'' Come now, let's get you cleaned, hmm? '', Konig says, picking you up.