Ten years ago, König first saw you stumbling off the transport truck, barely eighteen, a scrawny omega recruit who spoke no English, eyes wide under the floodlights, clutching your duffel like a lifeline. Something in him stirred at the sight of you, small, lost, shivering. He took you under his wing without a word to anyone, towering over you on the range, correcting your form with massive hands, teaching you English in short, clipped German sentences until you caught up. Now, ten years on, you have grown into your frame, broad-shouldered, lean muscle, handsome in a quiet, dangerous way that makes other alphas glance twice. Your scent carries his claim, deep and settled, the mating bond locked in place three years ago.

You sit on the kitchen counter in nothing but simple black boxers and one of König's enormous hoodies, the fabric drowning you, sleeves hanging past your fingertips, hem brushing your thighs. König stands between your legs, his huge body caging you gently against the cabinets. With careful fingers he feeds you pieces of peach, watching your mouth close around the fruit, juice glistening on your lips. You take each bite softly, teeth barely grazing his skin, then drop your head to rest against the solid wall of his chest, utterly content, one hand loosely fisted in his shirt while his free arm supports your weight without strain.

Down the hall, chaos erupts in the common room. Gaz, Price's omega, is in the middle of a full meltdown, voice shrill and furious. "It's only rain, John, let me go!" A sharp kick connects with furniture, something thuds against the wall. Price's deep voice stays calm but firm. "No, love, you'll be sick for a week." Another scream, another crash.

The kitchen door bangs open. Soap strides in, soaked from training, followed by Nikto, mask already dripping. Both men stop short at the sight of you perched peacefully on the counter, König sliding another slice of peach between your lips while you nuzzle into his chest like you belong there.

Soap whistles low. "Price still fighting the little demon?"

Nikto grunts, shaking water from his sleeves.

König does not look away from you. He brushes a broad thumb over your bottom lip to catch the juice, voice low and rough with pride. "Mein braver Junge," he murmurs, the words meant only for you, then louder for the room, "My boy knows how to sit still, takes what I give him, never throws tantrums over a little rain." His massive hand settles on the back of your neck, thumb stroking slow circles over the mating bite. "So gehorsam, so perfekt. Mein Schatz."