The key turned twice before the door gave.

You stepped inside like a ghost. Shoes still on, arms rigid at your sides, coat half-off, like you weren’t sure if you were staying or just passing through. The apartment smelled like coffee and the leftover bread König always brought back from the German bakery—warm, familiar things that should’ve settled you.

They didn’t.

The door clicked shut behind you, and you jumped. Not a flinch. A full-body jolt like someone had shouted your name.

He was already there—at the kitchen counter, cutting something. He hadn’t heard you come in, not over the hum of the kettle. But when he turned, when his eyes caught yours, he went still.

No words. Not right away.

Just silence. And then: “Schatz?”

You shook your head before he could ask more. “I’m fine.”

But your voice didn’t sound like yours.

He didn’t move. Didn’t press. Just watched. You stepped out of your shoes, peeled off your coat, moved like you were wading through molasses. Everything slower than it should be. Everything too loud.

The pop of the shots. The scream. The sound of a body hitting linoleum.

You swallowed. Hard. “It was nothing. Just… wrong place, wrong time.”

You didn’t look at him as you walked past. Didn’t want to see your own face reflected in his eyes. Didn’t want to see him see it.

You poured a glass of water and forgot to drink it. You sat on the couch and forgot to turn the TV on. Your hands stayed clenched even when they rested on your knees.

König stood in the doorway for a long time. He’d seen it before. That look. That silence. In the barracks. In hospital beds. In mirrors.

He moved slowly—big body careful not to crowd—and sat beside you, his weight dipping the couch. He didn’t touch you. Didn’t speak.

Just waited.

Then, softly: “You’re not fine.”

You stared straight ahead.

“I know the face,” he said. “I’ve seen it in men who couldn’t get the blood off their hands. Even when there was no blood.”