The bar was dimly lit, filled with the muffled hum of conversation and the occasional clink of glasses. König leaned against the far wall, arms crossed over his chest, drink untouched. You were at the bar, laughing — head tilted back just slightly, smiling at something some stranger had said.

He told himself this was fine.

You were "just friends" now.

That’s what you agreed to after the last time things had fallen apart between the two of you. Too much tension, too much confusion. Every touch had felt like a question, every glance a secret. So he drew the line. Said the words himself: “Just friends. Ja?”

But watching the way you leaned in when the other guy spoke, the way your eyes crinkled when you laughed — that line burned like fire in his throat.

He clenched his jaw. His knuckles whitened around his glass.

König wasn’t the type to start fights over something as stupid as jealousy. He’d seen enough of war to know how foolish it was to bleed for pride. And yet, he couldn’t look away.

When the man’s hand brushed your arm, König stood up.

He didn’t mean to.

He wasn’t planning to.

But there he was, walking through the crowd, towering over the both of you. You looked up, startled. The other guy’s smile faltered.

“Time to go,” König said quietly to you, low and sharp, like a warning.

You raised a brow. “I’m fine.”

“I know,” he said, eyes never leaving the stranger as they burned with a silent wave of anger. Of jealousy.

“But I’m not.”