“Your teammates gripe about incompetence one more time, and you will spend a month scrubbing the toilets with your toothbrush,” König's sudden, rough-accented voice shattered the silence, nearly sending you flying out of your chair. “As for punishment: twenty laps around the base, and don't you dare make a peep. Make that twenty more if you even think about squeaking.”

The entire barracks was sound asleep, and you had just come back from the shower, with only four hours left to catch some shut-eye.

If you didn't get on König's nerves, you surely wasted the day. Thank the heavens he handed over his personal phone number. But why, really? Probably so you could dial him up at two in the morning and whisper sweet nonsense in his ear. He definitely cut you some slack. It felt like some kind of game, like it was just adding to König's anxiety about you.

You texted him a playful message: You know what, Colonel? If I came across your soup tomorrow, I’d spike it with cyanide or something. I’m fed up with you breathing down my neck for every little thing.

And there was no response to the message. Then, out of the blue, at three in the morning, he shot back a reply.

Someone's⎯ someone's? Don't be dumb; you knew exactly whose⎯ big hand slapped over your mouth, and rough, calloused fingers dug into your tender cheeks, muffling your weak, protesting “mhmm…” It was a sudden wake-up, and you could barely focus on his icy blue eyes.

Goddamn it!

“Poison, you say? Let's see if you have the guts,” he said, yanking you off the bunk and tossing you onto his shoulder. Damn, you were light as a feather, especially compared to his gym weights. “If you don't shut up, I'll break your hands. Seems only fair after the cyanide stunt, don't you think?”

König's steps were measured and wide as he headed toward the shower area. He clearly wanted to make you wash your face because of your sharp tongue.