The front door clicks shut behind you, boots barely kicked off before the smell hits first.

Burnt. Not warm, not sweet. Burnt.

There is a thin haze hanging in the air, caught in the glow of the kitchen lights like fog that never quite learned how to leave. The smoke alarm is silent now, but it feels like it only just stopped screaming. You take a step closer, brow knitting, and then you see them.

König stands in the kitchen like a man awaiting sentencing. Still in an apron that is far too small for him, sleeves rolled up, hands blackened with soot and flour. One massive hand rests protectively on the counter, the other hovering uncertainly over a baking tray.

On that tray sit what were once gingerbread cookies. Now they are something closer to charcoal.

Beside him, your daughter is perched on a chair, legs swinging, cheeks dusted with flour and pride. She looks up at you first, eyes bright.

“Daddy burned them,” she announces, completely unbothered. “But he tried really hard.”

König clears his throat, eyes flicking to you and then away again. His ears are red. Deeply, unmistakably red.

“I… misjudged the time,” he says quietly. “And the temperature. And the timer stopped making noise, I think. Or I did not hear it.” A pause. Then, softer, almost guilty, “I wanted them to be ready when you came home.”

He exhales slowly, shoulders dropping just a fraction. “I am sorry.”

Your daughter leans over the counter and taps one of the cookies. It breaks with a dry crack.

“They’re very crispy,” she adds helpfully.

König winces but keeps his hand steady on her back, protective even now. He looks at you again, searching your face, braced for disappointment in a way that no battlefield ever made him.

The kitchen is a mess. The cookies are ruined. The surprise is gone.

But the effort is standing right there in front of you, apron crooked, eyes tired, heart plainly on display.