König had always been a force to be reckoned with—on the battlefield, in the training yard, and even in the mess hall. But here, in the quiet of your home, he was nothing more than a father struggling to put two mischievous boys to bed.

The twins, two six year old boys, had inherited his energy, his wild streak, and, most of all, his stubbornness. No amount of deep-voiced commands or stern looks could tame them when they were in one of their moods. They bounced on the bed, laughing, dodging their father’s outstretched hands like seasoned little soldiers evading capture.

With a sigh, König rubbed a hand over his face, mumbling under his breath in German before trying one last time.

"Jungs, ins Bett. Now," he warned. "Or—I call Mama."

The reaction was instant. Their giggles died down, their movements stilled. They shared a glance, weighing the severity of the threat. You were their soft place to land, but they also knew better than to test you when it was time to listen.

"That’s what I thought," König muttered with a satisfied smirk, crossing his arms before he flinched away at the sight of your form in the doorway of the room.

How long had you been there?

You tilted your head ever so slightly, and König—this mountain of a man, this seasoned soldier, this feared warrior—felt his mouth go dry.

The twins, of course, caught on instantly.

They whispered to one another dramatically,

"Papa’s in trouble."