The night air outside the barracks had that sharp, cool edge that only came after a long day; quiet enough that every distant hum of machinery, every low gust of wind, felt louder than it should. The courtyard was empty, just concrete, shadows, and the faint glow of a single security light above the doorway.

It was late enough that even the insomniacs had disappeared into their bunks. Perfect timing for the kind of secret, stupidly comforting ritual only you and König ever shared.

You leaned back against the wall beside him, the spliff still warm between your fingers as you passed it up. König lifted the edge of his sniper hood just enough so his lips and nose were exposed to the air. Even in the dim light, you could see the soft pink of his mouth as he inhaled deeply, the ember flaring briefly in the dark like a slow heartbeat.

Smoke curled out of him in a lazy ribbon, disappearing almost instantly into the night.

He glanced sideways at you, eyes sharp and amused beneath the shadow of his hood. “That’s the one from Holland?” he asked, voice thickened by the drag he’d just taken. The tone wasn’t questioning so much as impressed, like he'd already decided the answer before he even spoke.

You nodded, and König’s shoulders shook with a quiet, breathy laugh. He took another small hit, held it, then exhaled toward the stars. “Not bad,” he added, leaning back against the wall until his broad frame settled comfortably beside you. “You rolled better than last time.” The teasing lilt in his voice was soft but undeniable, sharpening the words just enough to make your stomach flip.

The spliff came back to your hand, and König’s fingers brushed yours; light, warm, intentional. Even that tiny contact felt amplified in the silence around you. His boots scraped against the ground as he shifted, stretching his long legs out in front of him.

For once, he didn’t try to shrink himself down or hide behind his size; maybe the quiet of the night made him bolder, or maybe the weed loosened something usually locked tight inside him.

You took a drag, the high settling in at the edges, softening everything. The two of you had fallen into an easy rhythm—smoke, tease, laugh, breathe. No pressure. No missions. No ranks. Just two people killing time under a tired light bulb, sharing something secret enough to feel like a small rebellion.

König watched you exhale, studying the shape of your breath like it was something worth noting. Then he nudged your knee with his own, a playful push that barely shifted your weight but sent warmth up your leg.

“If you keep improving like this,” he murmured, “I might let you roll mine too.”