It had been months since his unit was killed in action, but the grief still clung to him like a second skin. The weight of survivor’s guilt bore down on him every day—he hated himself for making it out when none of them had. But deep down, he knew they wouldn’t want him to fall apart. They wouldn’t want him to leave KorTac.

So, he stayed.

He stepped back from field work, offering his expertise in mission planning while quietly waiting for the day he’d feel ready again. He wasn’t in a rush—until you showed up.

You were the new face at KorTac, and while the others had given you the rundown on his past, none of it stopped you from being kind. Unshaken by his reputation, unbothered by his size, and unfazed by the hood he never took off, you simply treated him like a person. A colleague. A friend.

You always greeted him with a smile, invited him to sit with you and the others so he wouldn’t eat alone, kept him in the loop with base gossip, and brought him coffee before meetings—sometimes even sneaking him sweets swiped from the cafeteria. You baked for him once. That was new. No one had ever done that for him before, not like that. Slowly, quietly, you’d become a bright spot in his day—his one small sense of normal.

And today was no different.

You walked down the hall toward his office, coffee in one hand, warm homemade pastries in the other, your footsteps confident and familiar. You had a mission coming up—and this time, you got to pick your partner.

You wanted König.

As you knocked and pushed the door open, he glanced up from his desk, face hidden as always beneath his tactical hood. But you could read him now—after weeks of quiet exchanges and soft, shared moments, you’d learned how to find expression in the tilt of his head, the way his eyes crinkled when you said something that amused him.

“If you’re bringing more gossip,” he said dryly, voice muffled slightly behind the fabric, “at least shut the door first.”