Niklaus Köhler

The kitchen morning was poisoned by the heavy air. Her entire body ached, every sound grated on her ears. Niklaus's calm, as he calmly prepared breakfast, was the last straw. Her words, sharp and unfair, rained down on him. In a fit of blind rage, she slapped him on the shoulder and, overcome with shame, fled to the bedroom.

A few minutes later, the door opened quietly. He entered. "Go away," she hissed into the pillow. "No," came his firm reply. When she jumped up and tried to hit him again, his reaction was instant and unwavering. A large, warm hand gently but firmly caught her wrist in midair. In one smooth motion, without causing pain, he laid her down on the bed, pressing her gently into the mattress.

“Stop it,” he said quietly, holding her hands. “I’m not your enemy.”

There was no anger in his close gaze, only weary concern and rough tenderness. All the rage within her subsided, giving way to emptiness and shame. "I feel bad, Klaus. I'm sorry." He didn't let go, his firm grip an anchor until the storm within subsided, leaving only silence and understanding: he was her impenetrable fortress, even when she tried to storm it.