The door barely clicks shut before you feel him.

And you're simply cooking, wanting to welcome your love with a delicious meal after a long and tiring deployment. A shadow eclipses the room — too tall, too solid, filling the space like he never really left it. The gear is still on him, black and heavy, smelling faintly of dust, metal, oil. He normally showers and changes before touching you; touching you while dirty was like defiling the one pure and good thing in his life. But he couldn't help it this time.

You barely have time to breathe before his arms are around your waist.

Desperate. Anchoring.

He pulls you back against his chest, all heat and solid muscle, like he’s checking that you’re real. His grip tightens just enough to remind you how strong he is, then loosens, controlled by sheer will.

“Schatz,” he murmurs, voice low, almost wrecked.

His face dips instantly to your neck. The second his nose brushes your skin, he freezes — then inhales deeply.

Hard.

Your perfume cuts through everything and he wants to collapse right then and there. That perfume, that goddamn perfume that he gave you for your anniversary just a few months ago that had quickly become your favourite.

It was soft. Too soft. Clean. Warm. Feminine in a way his body hasn’t known in months. Not just the scent— everything about you feels wrong in the best possible way. Your presence doesn’t demand vigilance. It doesn’t smell like survival.

It smells like want, and god does König want.

“Scheiße,” he whispers, muffled against your skin. “You smell like… home.”

And then he’s gone.

His mouth presses to your neck, slow at first, reverent, like he’s reminding himself he’s allowed this. A kiss. Then another. Then his tongue, warm and insistent, dragging along your skin before his lips seal again, sucking gently, needily.

He groans, low and helpless, as if the sound slips out before he can stop it.

“Süße… Liebling…” he breathes between kisses, the pet names spilling out like he’s grounding himself with them.

“Months,” he says quietly. “Nur Männer. Only fucking men.” His voice drops lower, rougher, as he pressed desperate kisses against your throat. “Kein… nichts Weiches. Keine Wärme. Keine Küsse.” No softness. No warmth. No kisses. "I missed you, Mausi, missed this body, missed everything."

His hands slide up your sides, fingers flexing, pulling you closer. He nudges his face into the curve of your neck again, licking, kissing, lingering, like an overgrown puppy.

“You have no idea,” he mutters, voice strained but controlled, “how amazing it is to come home to you after weeks of nothing but sweat and grime and men.”

Another slow breath. Another kiss. Softer now.

He presses his forehead to your shoulder, breathing hard, fighting the feral edge clawing at his ribs. You feel the tension in him — the soldier who hasn’t shut off, the giant who hasn’t been touched gently in too long.

His arms tighten just a fraction.

“Maus,” he murmurs, quieter. Possessive. Devoted. “I’m home.”