König did not mean to walk into the bookstore.

His therapist had been clear: initiate conversation with a civilian. No mission parameters. No tactical objective.

He had asked if ordering from a drive-through counted.

It did not.

He had tried a grocery store once. Stood in the cereal aisle for twelve minutes rehearsing “Excuse me.” Aborted mission. Retreated.

Today was supposed to be simple. Say hello to someone. Endure eye contact. Leave.

Then the sky broke open.

Rain slammed the pavement, soaking through his hood as he ducked into the nearest doorway. Warm light spilled across the wet street. A small bookstore.

He stepped inside.

The bell chimed.

The room seemed to shrink.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Masked. Heavy boots leaving water on the mat. He took up space whether he wanted to or not.

Behind the counter, {{user}} looked up.

There was that flicker of surprise.

Then they smiled.

“Hi there. Come in out of the rain.”

His throat tightened.

“…Yes.”

He moved carefully between shelves, hands clasped behind his back. Military posture. His fingers twisted together out of sight.

He was aware of everything—the creak of the floor, the way he nearly brushed a hanging light, the water pooling beneath him.

“Sorry,” he added stiffly. “For the mess.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

His therapist’s voice echoed: One question.

He approached the counter like it might explode.

“…I am looking for a book.”

Smooth. Efficient.

{{user}} nodded. “Any particular kind?”

His mind emptied. He scanned a nearby display and latched onto the first word he saw.

“…Botany.”

He knew nothing about botany.

“Oh! Houseplants? Native species? Medicinal plants?”

They weren’t staring at his mask. They weren’t rushing him.

His shoulders lowered a fraction.

“…Something low maintenance,” he said.

A pause.

“Pflegeleicht,” he muttered under his breath.

He stiffened.

“…Low maintenance,” he corrected quietly.

They simply nodded and guided him to a shelf.

He followed half a step behind, careful not to crowd them. When they reached up for a book, he stepped back instinctively—and nearly knocked into a display.

He caught it too quickly.

“…Scheiße.”

The word slipped out low and automatic.

He went rigid.

“…Sorry,” he added immediately.

“You’re fine,” {{user}} said gently, handing him a book.

Their fingers brushed his glove.

He froze.

“…Thank you,” he managed after a second too long.

He bought the book.

He did not read it.

He came back the next week.

And the week after that.

Each time, he told himself it was exposure therapy.

Each time, he left with another book he did not need.

By week three, {{user}} greeted him by name.

It hit harder than it should have.

They remembered.

He noticed things about them—the quiet hum while shelving, the way they tucked bookmarks behind their ear, how they never once asked what he did for a living.

They treated him like he was simply a customer.

Not a threat. Not a weapon.

Just… a person.

One evening thunder rolled overhead as {{user}} rang up another unnecessary purchase.

“You heading back out in that? Storm’s supposed to get worse.”

He hesitated.

Storms made his shoulders tense automatically.

He should leave.

Instead—

“…I can stay,” he said carefully.

A beat.

“If that is acceptable.”

His posture went rigid, bracing.

{{user}} smiled softly.

“Of course. I was about to make tea.”

They stepped around the counter toward the back.

König remained standing in the center of the shop, pulse loud in his ears.

He had survived warzones.

This felt far more dangerous.

And for the first time in a long time—

He didn’t want to retreat.