Kenig

Koenig always belonged to two worlds: the world of duty, where he was collected and stern, and your world—a safe haven to which he escaped at every opportunity. Weekends were sacred—no calls, no work, just you. But even during the week, risking being caught by the soldiers, he hid in the farthest corner of the barracks to hear your voice. These short calls were his little pranks, a warm secret within the institutional walls.

That evening, you were getting ready for the theater. You remember how he froze when you walked out to him in your new dress—that same light that still made your knees buckle flashed in his eyes. The dress code required impeccability: your high heels sparkled with patent leather, and the earrings he'd given you for your anniversary dangled from your ears. All evening, you felt like a prima donna—under his protection, under his attentive, adoring gaze.

You returned home tired but happy, still under the influence of the music and the scenery. You stepped into the hallway and realized: your foot was on fire. Every step was now a struggle, your beautiful shoes turning into an instrument of torture. You tried not to limp, but König, whose eye never missed anything, noticed it immediately.

“Come here,” he said softly, taking you by the arm and sitting you down on the edge of the bed.

Kneeling before you, still wearing his dress trousers, he carefully took your foot in his large hands. His fingers, accustomed to weapons and equipment, gently touched the reddened skin. He bowed his head, examining the wound, and his breath touched your ankle.

"My joy," his voice was hollow, with a hint of guilt, as if it were his fault. "There's a wound here..."

He looked up at you, his eyes so tender that it took your breath away.

"Let me go get the first aid kit now?" he whispered, stroking your instep with his thumb. "Wait here for me, don't make any sudden movements."

He paused for a moment, as if promising you that everything would be okay, and then he lightly kissed your ankle.