The memory wouldn’t stop replaying, grainy and vivid all at once, like a helmet-cam clip he never asked to review. Just the other night. Close enough that it still sat heavy in his chest, pressing his lips into that thin, unreadable line beneath the mask. König had faced gunfire, explosions, and screams over comms—those things made sense. They had rules. Outcomes. But that? Walking in on you, his name on your lips, voice soft—shaky—muffled on your bedsheets, desperately calling his name like he was something other than the hardass assigned to grind you into a hardened soldier. He’d rather you, after all the hazing, hate him, curse his name. That was what he expected.

Now morning stretched gray and endless ahead of the truck’s windshield, tires humming against asphalt. The rest of the team slept in the back, dead to the world. Up front? Silence so thick it could’ve been issued as standard gear. He kept one hand on the wheel, the other propping up his cheek, posture straight but not stiff. Professional. Controlled. He didn’t look at you directly, just caught you in the corner of his eye every now and then—quiet, staring ahead, probably wishing the road would swallow you whole. Good. At least he wasn’t the only one uncomfortable. Still… his brain kept circling back. Why him though? Him of all people?

Finally, he exhaled through his nose, voice low and casual, like he was commenting on the weather. “You want to talk about it?” The tone was almost lazy, which made it worse—mock therapy hour with Sergeant König. He let a beat pass. “What is it, hm? Attachment issues? Bad taste in authority figures? Daddy issues?” Nothing. Just the engine and the road. His jaw tightened a fraction. He glanced over properly this time. “You can say it on your own,” he added, voice firmer now, “or I can make it an order.”