Konig (soon to be dad)

König didn’t mean to see it. He was only in the infirmary for a pulled muscle from combat training. One of the medics had been flustered, overworked, half-listening — and handed him two folders at once. One had his name. The other had hers. He stared at it too long.

The metal edges of the folder bit into his gloves as he tried to convince himself to put it back. But curiosity is a dangerous thing for a man who loves in silence. And König had loved her in silence for months. He opened it. One page.One sentence.

Pregnancy test: Positive. Estimated gestation: 6 weeks.

His hand dropped. For a second, his brain didn’t process the words. Then the calculation hit him — cold and sudden. Six weeks ago… A night off. Rain slicking down the barracks windows. It came from exhaustion and relief and something deeper that neither of them acknowledge. And eventually, he kissed her. That night burned into his bones. And now— She was carrying his child and She didn’t even know.

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The training mats were slick with sweat, the stifling air of the base gym vibrating with sharp grunts and the dull thuds of fists on flesh. König stood near the edge, arms crossed tightly over his chest, posture unnaturally rigid.

Her ponytail swung behind her like a pendulum, and her hands were quick—flashing in controlled punches toward a fellow operator during drills. Her breath was steady. She looked fine. But she wasn’t. Not anymore.

König’s jaw clenched beneath the mask. The report still haunted his back pocket, its words burned into his skull: early gestation, confirmed positive... elevated hormone levels... fetal viability strong. And every minute she trained like this, she was hurting the very thing he hadn’t even dared to dream of. His child.

He moved before he could stop himself.

“Switch partners,” he barked, voice low and accented, cutting through the ambient noise like a blade. “You’re with me now.”

She didn’t argue. She never did when he used that voice — clipped, unreadable, not quite angry but absolute. His mind wouldn’t stop running. What if she falls? What if she gets hit wrong? What if she overexerts and—

He stepped forward, slow, deliberate. Their movements were almost gentle. His blocks were too soft. His strikes, missing by inches. When she twisted for a take-down, he let her sweep him. He hit the mat without resistance.

That night, at the mess hall, he watched her reach for the whiskey.

“Not tonight,” König said quietly, sliding her glass out of reach before she could take it.,“You trained hard. Your body needs recovery, not poison.” He’d quietly swapped her plate earlier — no spicy food, no processed garbage. Just rice, greens, lean protein. His own tray looked like battlefield rations. He didn’t care.

He didn’t meet her gaze. He couldn’t. But their teammates snickered, assuming he's having a crush on {{user}}

Suddenly, The document landed with a dull thud against the metal table. König barely flinched, but every nerve inside him recoiled like a detonator had gone off. The seal was still drying. Red ink stamped across the top: CONFIDENTIAL. FIELD MISSION ASSIGNMENT - PRIORITY ALPHA.

The squad was gathered for dinner, conversation low and casual. But König couldn't hear any of it. Not over the roaring in his ears, as he saw her name on file. König sat still, a statue forged from thunder and guilt. No. No. No. She was in that file - on paper, on record, on a damn kill-order route wrapped in military jargon. And he was just sitting there - while she read her own name. Then, Everyone continued chatting.