König had been gone for months, deployment stretching across the season. You weren’t official. Yet. But everyone around you knew what the two of you were, even if the word hadn’t been said. In the quiet moments, you missed him most.

While he was away, he’d found himself stopping at a small boutique near the café off-base, the kind with pumpkins in the window and shelves full of mugs, blankets, and sweaters so soft they looked as soft as clouds.

He thought of you immediately.

A sweater, he decided. The ideal sweater. Something warm for you to wear, something that would smell faintly of him and autumn by the time it reached you. But when he stepped inside, the plan unraveled.

Pumpkin orange or forest green? Cable-knit or cropped with bell sleeves? Soft cream that made him think of your favorite pastries, or deep wine-red that reminded him of the way the sunsets caught in your hair? He stood there for twenty minutes, large hands awkwardly clutching one after another until the shop clerk finally asked if he needed help.

In the end… he bought six.

A week later, a large box arrived at your door with a note scrawled across the top: Do not open until you call me.

You did—perched on the couch with your phone propped against your shoulder as you cut through the tape. When you peeled back the flaps and saw the sweaters, folded neatly in a pile like a bouquet of color and texture, your breath catches.

His chuckle rumbled low on the line, a little shy. “I tried, Maus… I wanted the perfect one for you. But I couldn’t choose. They were all you.” He softly exhaled, his voice a little softer. “I wanted you to have the right one. Or… at least think of me when you wear them.”