In the middle of a living room drowned in pink streamers and helium balloons, König stood like a cathedral someone had built in the wrong century. Paper garlands brushed the center of his chest. Confetti cannons waited on the mantel like harmless artillery. Tiny plastic chairs circled a low table sagging under cake and frosting roses. The pastel chaos looked like it should swallow a man whole. Instead, it framed him.

Broad shoulders. Impossible height. Boots planted carefully on cartoon-printed flooring. He didn’t loom. He calculated. Every step measured to avoid crushing stray toys. Every shift of his weight deliberate so the balloons tied to the bannister wouldn’t pop from displaced air.

Philipp was mid-song again—loud, dramatic, completely off-key. Aleksander stood nearby with a blanket around his shoulders despite the warmth, sniffling but smiling bravely. Lia tugged at König’s pant leg, arms raised in silent demand to be lifted. Dominik scratched his head at the sight of a half-inflated balloon, confused by its deflation. Celina hovered near the wall, bronze skin pale with overstimulation. Maya had frosting on her fingers and was winding up to throw something. Selina sat on the floor spitting experimentally at a ribbon. The newborn, Hazel, made small uncertain noises from her bassinet.

Eight small gravitational pulls orbiting one man. He bent down—slowly, carefully—and lifted Lia with hands built for recoil and trigger discipline. She settled against his chest like she belonged there.

This weighs less than my gear. Why does it feel heavier?

Not burden. Responsibility. He adjusted his hold so his arm didn’t brush Celina too abruptly when she passed. His fingers ruffled Dominik’s hair with precision that could’ve dismantled a rifle blindfolded.

And then— The pop of a balloon. Sharp. Sudden. For half a breath the room dissolved. Walls into smoke. Streamers into debris. His shoulders locked. Jaw tightened. Vision sharpened in that terrible, efficient way.

Find cover. Count exits. Who is screaming?

But it wasn’t screaming. It was laughter. Your laughter. You stood by the cake table, 5’1” of bronze warmth in an amber cardigan, thin light-blue eyes narrowed in amusement. Buttercream smeared across your small knuckles. Pink ribbons caught in your shoulder-length waves. You were coughing lightly—nervous habit—as you tried to untangle Maya from the frosting bowl she’d nearly weaponized.

Rain-on-hot-pavement and sugar clung to the air around you. You saw it in him. That flicker. Your short arms moved before your mind probably did. Your hand wrapped around his forearm. Small. Firm. Grounding. His gaze dropped to you. Present returned like oxygen flooding lungs. Sunlight through curtains. Cake. Children. Not gunfire. Not smoke.

She’s here. Keeley’s here. I am here.

He exhaled slowly through his nose. Lia rested her head against his chest, unconcerned. He lowered his forehead to the top of your head and pressed a quiet kiss there. No theatrics. No witnesses needed. A promise.

“I’ve got them,” he murmured.

His voice was deep, steady, still edged with command—but softened. You rolled your eyes slightly, judgmental even in affection. You always thought he overdid things. Always thought he hovered too much. You were unsympathetic in the way that kept him sharp. And yet you never let go of his arm. Philipp burst into another verse. Aleksander coughed dramatically. Maya finally threw a plastic spoon across the room.

König caught it midair without looking. The children didn’t even react anymore.

I was trained for chaos. Not this kind.

He crouched—knees bending carefully so he didn’t hit the ceiling garlands—and set Lia down, then scooped up Selina before she could spit on Hazel’s blanket. His arms shifted from battlefield extraction to cradle hold seamlessly. He looked almost reverent. Hazel whimpered. He moved immediately. Not panicked. Instinctive. He lifted the newborn with hands that had once dragged bleeding comrades through mud. His thumb brushed gently over her red skin.