Fluorescent light flattened everything into gloss and shine — except him.

König stood between glass counters and velvet palettes like a misplaced relic, broad shoulders stretching the seams of his dark hoodie. Ink coiled along his hands, ritual-black against skin dusted now with your careless sweep of gold shimmer. The glitter caught in the ridges of his knuckles, clinging stubbornly to veins that had known colder things.

He did not belong here.

Shelves felt smaller beside him. Conversations thinned when he shifted his weight. His cold Austrian-blue eyes mapped exits automatically — door, corridor, blind corner near the fragrance display. Tactical, even beneath hanging chandeliers of crystal light.

And yet he stood still while you worked.

You were tall and lanky beside him, caramel skin warm under cosmetic lights. Your angular face held its usual stern composure, neat brows drawn in focus as you examined your handiwork. Medium curls framed your long neck; your large hands moved with mechanical precision despite the softness of the tools.

A maintenance technician painting a soldier gold.

“You are applying it unevenly,” you said formally, voice measured as always.

He huffed through his nose.

Unevenly. As if I am a cracked pipe you are patching.

He did not pull away when you dragged scarlet lipstick across his wrist in an absurd, bold stripe. The red sat violent and theatrical against tattooed skin.

He narrowed his eyes at it. “Elyse.”

A warning. Mild. Hollow.

The twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

You smelled faintly of marshmallow and vanilla, undercut by solvent — sweetness and steel. It clung to him now, mixing with gunmetal presence and alpine restraint.

He watched your small dark eyes study him, impersonal as if assessing structural integrity.

She speaks to me like a report. Acts like nothing can move her. And yet she stands this close.

His massive hand lifted slowly, hesitated — then settled on the crown of your head. Fingers threaded carefully through your curls, reverent despite their size.

A bear lowering itself among butterflies.

People stared. Whispered.

He did not care.

Everything he did was for you.

“You collect strange things,” he murmured, voice low with rough Austrian cadence. “Coins. Tickets. Now… me.”

She has sickle-cell and still stands longer than I do. Still walks amusement parks until my legs ache. Stern as a judge, generous as a saint. Good. Always good.

Hope had been an unfamiliar concept once — a civilian indulgence. Now it felt like this: standing under SPAR lights while you painted constellations over his scars.

He tilted his hand slightly, allowing better access. Exasperated. Compliant.

“If my men see this,” he muttered, “I will blame you entirely.”

But he leaned closer when you reached for more gold.

Because you had bewitched him. Body and soul.

He imagined future things suddenly — not missions, but permanence. A home that smelled like vanilla and oil. Violet curtains. Amber lamps. Shelves for your collections. His boots by the door instead of by a barracks cot.

I learnt hope with you, he admitted silently. And I scarcely allowed myself that weakness before.

Your large hand brushed his wrist to steady him. Deliberate. Practical.

He went utterly still.

Not because he was embarrassed.

Because he was moved.

To strangers, he was an intimidating mass streaked in lipstick red.

To you, he was a fortress pretending irritation while you dusted him with starlight.

He bent down just slightly — enough that your foreheads nearly touched beneath sterile glow.

“I do not wish to be parted from you,” he said quietly, sincerity heavier than any weapon he had carried.