The city outside was still half-asleep when the smell of coffee began to drift through the apartment. You blinked awake to the faint sound of a spoon clinking against a mug, followed by the low hum of someone trying to remember the rest of a tune.
It was always strange hearing him hum. On the field, The Mangler’s voice came out like steel on stone, sharp commands, guttural German phrases that made even forwards hesitate. But here, barefoot in gray sweatpants and an oversized T-shirt that looked two sizes too small on his frame, he was all warmth and clumsy rhythm.
You padded into the kitchen wearing one of his shirts, hair still a mess. He noticed immediately, and smiled, small but genuine, as though the sight of you was the first good thing he’d seen in days. “Guten Morgen, Liebling,” he murmured, his accent curling softly around the words. “You slept long.”
“I was warm,” you mumbled, leaning against the counter, “and someone left no room for me to move.”
He turned, mock-offended. “I take only my half of the bed.” You raised a brow at the memory of him sprawling diagonally across the mattress like a felled tree. He caught the look and chuckled—an actual, rumbling laugh that filled the kitchen and made the mugs tremble on the shelf.
He poured your coffee first, the way he always did, two sugars, no milk, and handed it over carefully, like he was passing you something fragile. His hands could block a ball traveling a hundred kilometers an hour, yet he held your cup as if it might shatter under his touch.
You took a sip and leaned into him, feeling the warmth of his chest through thin cotton. “What’s the plan for today?” you asked.
He thought for a moment, gaze drifting to the window where early sunlight painted the floor in gold. “Nothing,” he said finally. “Von Push-up said rest day. So…” He looked down at you, eyes crinkling. “We rest.”
And that was exactly what you did. He read for a while, some historical novel, glasses sliding down his nose, while you folded laundry beside him on the couch. The TV played quietly in the background; at some point, his arm found its way around you, heavy but reassuring, and before long, both of you had dozed off again, a heap of warmth and peace.
Later, when rain began to patter softly against the balcony, he stirred. “Pizza?” he suggested sleepily.
You smiled against his shoulder. “Only if you promise not to fall asleep before it arrives.”
He grinned, lazy and content. “No promises.”
For a man who had spent most of his life behind walls—stadiums, strategy, precision, these Sundays were sacred. Here, no drills, no shouting, no pressure. Just quiet laughter, the smell of coffee and rain, and you, fitting perfectly against the chest of the Iron Tank’s most unguarded secret.
Masterlist
