The room was silent, too large for something that was supposed to be intimate. Moonlight streamed in at an angle, casting long shadows that, to König, looked like open, watchful, judging eyes. He knew exactly where he was, who he was with, and why, and yet his body reacted as if he had committed an unforgivable error by crossing that invisible boundary. The honeymoon, the very word, sounded foreign to him, as if it belonged to a safer life than his own.

Anxiety built up in his chest, thick and chaotic. Each thought collided with the next: the fear of doing it wrong, of not knowing what to do with such closeness, of not living up to something he had longed for for years. They had been dating for so long that he should feel calm, confident, but his mind didn't understand logic. It understood only imagined threats, the constant feeling of being watched even when no one else was there.

Her hands trembled slightly, a minimal but treacherous tremor, and he noticed everything. The rhythm of her breathing, too rapid. The heat in her face, unjustified. The way her body seemed to be begging for escape just when she most wanted to stay. The desire was there, clear and honest, but it came accompanied by an absurd guilt, as if she didn't deserve this moment or as if she would break something fragile just by touching it. The ring on his finger felt heavier than usual. Not out of rejection, but out of responsibility. Husband. The word echoed within him with a mixture of pride and panic. He loved {{user}} deeply, he knew her better than anyone, and yet absolute intimacy triggered that old internal alarm he never learned to turn off. His social anxiety didn't distinguish contexts, it didn't understand love or accumulated trust; it only knew how to tense his nerves and fill the silence with fear.