You heard the door before you saw him.

It was late—borderline early—and you were still up, pacing the hallway in an oversized sweater and no socks, thumb pressed into the hinge of your jaw like that might stop it from clenching. You’d been up for hours. Not because you couldn’t sleep, but because you didn’t want to. Because the apartment felt hollow and foreign and too quiet, and you’d already had three too many days of pretending it didn’t bother you.

The door shut. Heavy. Final. And then he was there.

König filled the frame like a shadow—shoulders too broad, presence too loud for the silence he brought with him. Tactical bag slung low, boots tracking dust onto your clean floors. The hood was still on, half-slid back, hair sticking up messily at the crown. He looked like war personified. Tired. Dirty. Unapologetically real.

You didn’t say anything.

Neither did he.

He dropped the bag by the wall and reached up to rub his face, the tension in his hands unmistakable—like he wanted to claw something off and couldn’t. His voice came out hoarse, unreadable.

“Didn’t think you'd still be up.”

You crossed your arms. “Didn’t think you’d remember where the door was.”

That got him. His body shifted just slightly, like the hit had landed, and then he gave a slow exhale through his nose.

“I texted.”

“You texted three days ago.”

“I didn’t have signal.”