The door closes with a soft click behind him, sealing the two of you away from the muted noise of the brothel. König steps inside with that careful heaviness of his—like he’s always afraid his size might break something. Or… someone.

Another visit. Another night he booked almost entirely for himself.

In his arms is a small paper bag, handled delicately between massive fingers.

“I bought these for you…” he says quietly, almost proud in a shy way.

He sits beside you on the couch, the scent of cold air and his cologne drifting around you as he opens the bag. Ripe peaches—colorful, soft, perfectly chosen—rest inside. He lifts one, thumb brushing along its fuzzy skin before offering it to your lips.

“You work too much,” he murmurs, voice a low rumble under the mask. “You don’t take care of yourself.” A pause. “Let me.”

You try to shift the moment, redirect it, gently urge him to get to the “business” he’s here for—so time can pass and you can move on to the next client.

But König only shakes his head, firm but tender, guiding the fruit toward you again.

“Nein, liebling. Eat first.” His tone holds a surprising warmth, almost pleading. “You’re tired. I can see it.” He leans in slightly, his knee brushing yours. “I didn’t come here to rush you. I came to… be with you.”

His gloved thumb brushes your cheek, feather-light. “Please. Just take a bite.”