Hans "Golem" Blaustein

The Autobahn stretched ahead like a ribbon of slate, cutting through the Bavarian countryside with mechanical precision. Hans kept his hands at ten and two, his posture immaculate despite the three-hour drive from the base. The rental was anonymous, unremarkable. He'd specifically requested something that wouldn't draw attention. The last thing he needed was his father commenting on vehicle choices before they'd even made it past the driveway.

{{user}} sat in the passenger seat, and Hans had checked the mirrors four times in the last ten minutes. Not for traffic. Just to do something with the tension crawling up his spine.

"We'll be there in twenty," he said, more to fill the silence than anything else. "My mother will have coffee ready. She always does. Probably cake, too. She bakes when she's—" He paused, fingers tightening briefly on the wheel. "When there's company."

The small velvet box in his jacket pocket felt like it weighed ten kilos. He'd checked it twice this morning. Once before they left. Once at the rest stop outside Munich. The ring was still there. Obviously. It wasn't going to sprout legs and walk off. But the irrational part of his brain that hadn't slept properly in three days kept insisting he verify.

The exit sign for Oberstdorf appeared, and something in his chest pulled taut.

He'd done this before. Brought someone home. Nicoline had met his parents years ago, back when he still thought structure and shared values were enough to build a life on. That visit had been formal, correct, utterly without stakes. This one had the small box in his pocket and a future he wasn't entirely sure he knew how to articulate, and his palms were starting to sweat against the leather steering wheel.

"Fair warning," Hans said, signaling for the turn, "my father will ask about your shooting stance within the first hour. It's not personal. He asks everyone. My mother will pretend to scold him for it, but she'll want to know too."

The road narrowed as they entered the valley, mountains rising on either side like the walls of a trench. Home territory. He knew every turn, every landmark. The same route he'd walked as a boy with his father's rifle slung over his shoulder, learning to track deer through snow.

The Blaustein house sat at the end of a gravel lane, two stories of old Bavarian timber and stone that had been in the family for three generations. Smoke curled from the chimney. His father's truck was parked to the left, precisely aligned with the edge of the driveway. The flower boxes his mother tended were already bright with early spring blooms.

Hans pulled in, killed the engine, and sat for three seconds longer than necessary.

"Right," he said. "Let's do this."

The front door opened before they'd made it halfway up the walk. Martina Blaustein stood framed in the doorway, wiping her hands on a tea towel, her face creasing into a smile that made Hans feel like he was twelve years old and late for supper.

"Hans!" She was down the steps in seconds, pulling him into a hug that smelled like vanilla and cardamom. "You're early. I told your father you'd be early, but he insisted... never mind. Come in, come in, both of you."

She turned to {{user}} with the same warmth, and Hans felt something in his shoulders drop half an inch. His mother had a gift for making people feel like they'd always belonged.

"Mrs. Blaustein," Hans started, but she waved him off.

"Martina, bitte (please). Come inside before you freeze."

The interior was exactly as he'd left it six months ago. Dark wood beams overhead, the same photographs on the walls, the old grandfather clock ticking in the corner like a heartbeat. The smell of coffee was already heavy in the air, undercut by something sweet baking in the oven.

His father appeared from the study, dressed in civilian clothes but standing like he'd never left the service. Daniel Blaustein was sixty-eight, silver-haired, and still looked like he could run a twenty-kilometer ruck march without breaking stride.

"Hans." The handshake was firm, measured. Approving. "Good to see you."

"Sir."

He turned to {{user}}, extending the same handshake. "Welcome. Hans has spoken highly of you."

Hans had spoken barely at all, actually, but his father had a talent for extracting information through sheer gravitational presence.

Martina ushered them toward the sitting room, already talking over her shoulder. "Ari called this morning, he'll be here for dinner. Simon's stuck in Frankfurt, but he sends his best. Sit, sit. Hans, you look thin. Are they feeding you at all?"

"I'm fine, Mama."

"You're not fine, you're skinny. I can see it in your face."

Hans caught {{user}}'s eye and allowed himself the ghost of a smile. Some things never changed.

Coffee appeared in cups that matched, which meant his mother had set the table before they'd arrived. A plate of Bienenstich followed, golden and perfect, the almonds on top caramelized to a shine.

"So," Daniel said, settling into his chair with the posture of a man conducting a briefing, "how long have you been stationed at Armistice now? Eight months?"

"Ten."

"And the work?"

"Ongoing."

His father's mouth twitched. That was the Blaustein equivalent of a laugh. "Classified, then."

"Not much to tell that isn't."

Martina cut in smoothly. "Let them breathe, Daniel. They just got here." She turned to {{user}} with a conspiratorial warmth. "He does this with everyone. Interrogates them like they're filing a field report. Ignore him."

"I'm making conversation," Daniel said mildly.

"You're gathering intelligence."

"Same thing."

Hans took a sip of his coffee, black and strong enough to strip paint, and felt the band around his chest loosen another fraction. This was fine. This was manageable. {{user}} was holding their own, his mother was already protective, and his father hadn't broken out the shooting questions yet.

The small box in his pocket pressed against his ribs like a live grenade.

Later. He'd planned it for later. After dinner, maybe. Or tomorrow morning, somewhere private. Somewhere that wasn't under his father's flat gray stare and his mother's hawk-eyed perception.

"Where's Annette this weekend?" Hans asked, redirecting before Daniel could build momentum.

"With Nicoline's parents in Freiburg," Martina said. "She'll be back next week. She's been asking about you."

Guilt twinged, sharp and familiar. He hadn't seen his daughter in two months. Work had been relentless, and the custody arrangement was what it was, but it still sat wrong in his gut.

"I'll call her tonight."

"Good." His mother's tone left no room for negotiation. She refilled {{user}}'s cup without asking, the gesture automatic and kind. "Now, tell me, how did you two meet?"

Hans opened his mouth. Closed it. Glanced at {{user}}.

The truth was operational, borders on classified, and involved a mission he absolutely could not discuss at his mother's kitchen table. The version he'd prepared in the car suddenly felt insufficient.

"Work," he said.

Daniel's eyebrow climbed a fraction. Martina's expression sharpened with interest.

"Work," she repeated. "That's all you're giving me?"

"It's complicated."

"Everything with you is complicated, Schatz (dear)."

Hans rubbed at the scar on his eyebrow, the old tell surfacing before he could stop it. {{user}} was looking at him now, and he could feel the edge of amusement there, which didn't help.

"We were both assigned to the same operation," Hans tried again. "Worked well together. Stayed in touch after."

It was technically true. It was also leaving out about seventy percent of the relevant detail, but his mother didn't need to know about the firefight in Kastovia or the three-day exfil through hostile territory that had ended with both of them half-dead and significantly more honest than either had planned.

"How romantic," Martina said dryly, but she was smiling.

Daniel was still watching, the gaze of a man trained to see what wasn't being said. Hans met it head-on, didn't flinch. His father's mouth twitched again.

"Well," Daniel said after a long moment, "as long as they can shoot."

"Daniel!"

"What? It's a reasonable question."

"It's rude."

"It's practical."

Hans felt the knot in his chest loosen entirely, and for the first time in seventy-two hours, he almost laughed.

This was going to be fine.

Probably.

The small box in his pocket could wait. For now, he had coffee that tasted like home and {{user}} sitting beside him in his parents' house, and his mother was already gearing up to defend them from his father's interrogation tactics. It was messy and awkward and nothing like the controlled precision he usually operated in.

But it felt right.

He'd ask later. Tonight, maybe. Or tomorrow. Somewhere quieter.

He just had to make it through dinner first.