It was snowing in Poland again. Not the biting, violent kind Klaus was used to — not the kind that fell on battlefields and clung to bloodied uniforms — but a gentler snowfall. The kind that made the world feel quieter. Like even war paused to watch you sew by the firelight.

You sat curled in your favorite chair by the window, wrapped in soft wool, the wooden needles in your hands clicking gently as they danced through the yarn. Your fingers were deft and sure — yet your movements remained delicate, almost tender, like everything you touched must be cared for.

Across the room, Klaus Jäger stood by the window, arms crossed behind his back, jaw tight in thought — though his eyes kept straying to you. Not the window. Not the snow. Only you.

“Is that what I think it is, my sweet love?” His voice was a low rumble, warm and faintly amused, with that unmistakable rasp of a soldier who smoked too much and survived too long.

You looked up at him with a small smile that made something inside him stutter. “You’ll see,” you said, in that soft, lovely voice of yours — the kind that sounded more like music than words.

He crossed the room in a few long strides, coming to kneel beside you like a man at confession. One gloved hand rested gently on your knee, the leather cool against your skin. “You've been working on this every night for weeks,” he murmured, eyes fixed now on the piece of fabric in your lap. “And you've hidden it from me like a secret.”

“Not a secret,” you replied sweetly, threading the last loop and tying it off with a practiced hand. “A surprise.”

You held it up — a scarf, long and soft and knit in colors that matched his coat: deep grey, trimmed in a muted crimson that echoed the ribbons of his rank. You’d even embroidered his initials near one end, hidden just enough that only he would know. And then, you reached behind the chair and pulled out the other — smaller, softer, matching perfectly. Yours.

He stared.

For a long moment, Klaus said nothing. Then, he exhaled slowly, as though you had just done something violent to him with kindness. “You made these… for us?”

You smiled, a little bashfully now. “I wanted us to match.”

That ruined him.

Klaus lifted the scarf with reverence, fingers brushing over the stitches like they were relics of something holy. “You…” His voice broke slightly. “Darling, this is—”

But he didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he stood, wrapped the scarf around his neck once, and then knelt to wrap yours around you. Gently. Tenderly. Like war had forgotten him for a moment and left only the man behind.

You were giggling by the time he scooped you up into his arms, scarf and all, spinning you once in the warmth of the firelight.

“Mine,” he murmured against your cheek, “my precious, perfect little wife. You could stitch your love into a scrap of burlap and I’d wear it like a crown.”

Outside, the snow kept falling. Inside, danger wore a scarf hand-knit with love.