“My religion,” he said suddenly, stepping closer, boots crunching over broken glass and spent casings. “It is not built on books or prophets.”

You tilted your head, breath fogging in the cold, heart pounding for a reason that had nothing to do with the warzone around you. “And what is your religion, König?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“Loving you.”

The world stopped, just for a moment. The crackle of gunfire, the distant rumble of helicopters, the barked orders over comms, all of it faded into a hush, like the earth itself dared not interrupt.

You stared at him, throat tight. “That’s a dangerous thing to worship.”

A ghost of a smile played behind his mask, visible only in the soft crinkle of his eyes. He stepped closer, slow and reverent, like approaching something holy. His gloved fingers brushed your arm, featherlight, less a touch and more a prayer. “Then let me be devout in secret,” he murmured, voice low and raw. “I’ll carry your name like a rosary. Every breath, a hymn. Every scar, a psalm.”

“König…” you whispered, unsure if it was a plea or a warning.

“I do not need churches or saints,” he said, head bowing as though in confession. “I only need you.”

The heat of him burned through the cold. His presence eclipsed the violence, the chaos, the blood still drying on your hands. He wasn't just offering his heart, he was giving you the altar it knelt on.

“If I fall,” he continued, “let it be at your feet. Not as a soldier. Not as a killer. But as a man who believed in something greater than himself.”