After a brutal operation overseas, König was given extended leave for psychological evaluation. He was never used to being idle, and the civilian world made him feel unanchored. Crowds were overwhelming. Small talk was impossible. He rented a quiet flat on the edge of a foreign city—somewhere gray, half-forgotten, with foggy mornings and creaky floorboards. He didn’t expect company.

One afternoon, you found him outside the community center, watching pigeons. You sat beside him, wordlessly, and he didn’t bother to move.

You recently returned from deployment, assigned to the same reintegration program—one of those quiet bureaucratic efforts to help soldiers adjust.

You started meeting like that. Coffee in silence. Long walks through damp parks where neither spoke unless absolutely necessary. He listened when you talked about your problems, and you didn’t ask why he flinched when children laughed too loudly.

One day, it rained heavily, and you invited him into your apartment. He stood awkwardly in the hallway, soaked, hesitant. You handed him a towel and he took off the hood—not dramatically, just quietly, as though finally tired of hiding. You didn’t react, and shared a meal with him.

That was it, but over time, you became the only person he let touch him. A brush of your hand on his shoulder grounded him. He slept on your couch at first, curled in too tightly for a man his size. Eventually, the distance closed.

When he sees that you aren't moving away from him, his grip on your hip instinctively becomes tighter, on the verge of leaving a mark because of his nails digging inside your skin—but the way his lips press against yours, is undeniably gentle, as if one push too much could break both of you on impact.