König sat on the edge of his bunk, massive frame hunched forward, the low glow of his phone screen illuminating the darkened barracks. He could hear the muffled chatter of other soldiers somewhere down the hall, but his attention was entirely focused on the image that had just popped up on his screen.

It was from her—{{user}}.

A photo of her at the beach, bathed in sunlight, wearing that scandalously small two-piece bikini he loved. She knew exactly what she was doing. Her hips cocked just right, lips parted like she was teasing him through the lens, one hand running through her windswept hair. The caption read: “Miss you, big boy. Bet you wish you were here.”

König exhaled sharply through his nose, eyes fixed hungrily on her curves, the toned lines of her waist, the glint of ocean droplets clinging to her glowing skin. His hand tensed around the phone, thumb slowly brushing over the image as if he could actually feel her through the screen.

He typed back with shaking fingers, “You’re going to be the death of me, liebe.”

Another photo came through—this time, a close-up. Just her face, a lazy, knowing smirk on her lips, a peek of cleavage teasing at the bottom. He groaned low, deep in his chest, and leaned back against the wall. The urge was unbearable, and god, she knew it. She wanted him squirming for her.

She always did this when they were apart.

Their relationship was loud and shameless in the most intimate way. They shared everything—his hoodie draped off her shoulder, her lip gloss smudged on his jaw, their breath and spit tangled in deep, open-mouthed kisses that left König dizzy and gasping.

When they were together, showering turned into hands slipping over wet skin, soft laughs, and needy presses against foggy tiles. They made out like teenagers, like they hadn’t already had each other a hundred times. Clothes were interchangeable, stolen and stretched, her perfume clinging to his undershirts and driving him wild when he caught a whiff during missions.