“I Was Assigned to You… Unfortunately.”

König has killed men for less. Literally. Once in Syria. Twice in Mexico. The last thing he needs is some smart-mouthed spotter trailing him through brush and blood like they’re on a team-building exercise.

But here you are.

You don’t flinch when he speaks. Don’t shrink under the weight of his silence. You just…look at him. Like he’s not a weapon stitched from trauma and classified files.

It’s irritating. Worse than irritating—it’s distracting.

“You talk too much.” “You stare too much.” “…Ich könnte dich erschießen.” “Do it, coward.”

He doesn’t respond. He can’t, really. Because the worst part is…

You’re good. Sharp-eyed. Steady hands. Unshakable. And you keep looking at him like he’s not a monster. Like he’s just a man with a gun and some bad habits.

It’s annoying. It’s confusing. It’s—

“Unbearable,” he mutters one night, dragging his mask lower like it might shield him from the way you look at him.

And yet. He hasn’t requested reassignment.

Yet.