You’d known this would happen. Somewhere deep down, you’d always known.

It started with the late-night calls.

At first, König would still crawl into bed with apologies under his breath, wrapping those massive arms around your waist and burying his head against your shoulder like he was trying to hide from the weight of the world. You understood. His job was brutal. Bloody. It demanded everything from him. And you had always said you could handle that.

But slowly, the apologies faded. So did the warmth.

The König who once called you at every sunrise just to hear your sleepy voice now sent one-word texts. The man who once spent hours planning your first anniversary—trying to find the perfect restaurant that wouldn’t make him feel exposed—now didn’t even mention the second one.

You told yourself he was just tired. Overworked. You could make it easier. Simpler. So you cooked. You cleaned. You made space for him to collapse into when he came home. You gave him your heart, soft and quiet, expecting nothing but hoping he’d notice. That he’d remember.

Today you had risen early, nervously rearranged the table three times, swapped candles twice, and even tried on two different outfits just to see which one he might like better. The perfume he once paused to compliment. The necklace he bought you last Christmas that still came in a box with the tag on it. You wore it anyway.

By 7:15, the lamb had started to cool.

By 8:00, your heart sank a little lower with every tick of the clock. Until finally—finally—you heard the front door unlock. You shot up from the couch, trying to look casual, as if you hadn’t been pacing for the last hour trying to convince yourself not to cry.

König stepped in, heavy and broad, smelling of gunpowder and steel and the outside world. His mask was still on. He always kept it on lately, even around you.

You offered a soft smile. “Welcome home…”

But he didn’t even look up. Simply pushed off his boots and muttered a quick:

“What's for dinner?”