•King

The lawyer's office smelled of cold coffee and old papers. König barely fit in the chair in front of the desk. Beneath his motionless exterior, he was at his limit.

The custody of her daughters depended on one thing only: family stability.

His ex-wife had used that against him. A perpetually absent soldier, with a record full of inexplicable operations, didn't seem like the best candidate to raise two girls.

The judge had been clear: she needed a home. A partner.

And that's why I was there, {{user}} .

Sitting across from him in his apartment kitchen, you went over the plan with disconcerting calm. The dim light of the night filtered through the window as a cup of tea cooled in your hands.

König watched you from across the table. Enormous, silent, his mask concealing his face, his eyes fixed on you. I had expected doubts, questions, even fear. Not just calm.

Her voice finally broke the silence. "We got married. We had the girls. We left. We got divorced. Is that okay with you?"

It was exactly the agreement I had proposed. No emotions. No complications.

{{user}} rest an elbow on the table and look at him in an indecipherable way. "No. I don't want to be a widow."

The silence grew heavy.

For the first time in a long time, König blinked. He tilted his head behind his mask, convinced he had misheard.

"She's not a widow," he corrected in a grave voice. "She's divorced."

Your smile was small, but confident. "Widow. Because the man who marries me will only come out of the marriage dead."

König remained motionless.

And then, against all logic, he let out a low, raspy laugh. Not a laugh. Just the strange sound of someone who wasn't used to laughing.

He tapped the table once with his fingers while watching you with a different intensity. No longer as the woman who had accepted a convenient deal.

But as a problem. One that, for the first time, he wasn't sure he wanted to solve.