⸻ ⋆. ❞

he was always just there.

lurking in the periphery of your vision, a towering shadow wrapped in anonymity. könig never spoke when he didn’t have to — his voice, when he used it, always strained as if it hurt to come out. but you could feel him. watching. waiting.

you never said his name. you didn’t know anything besides what they called him. not at first. you barely even looked at him. but könig noticed everything.

how you always wore your hair tied back in the field, but loose when you thought no one was looking. how softly you spoke to injured soldiers.

and he — he was just wrong. too large. too quiet. too broken in all the places that men usually aren’t allowed to show. and so he said nothing. he buried it. buried you — under obsession, under discipline, under duty.

but that didn’t stop the dreams.

dreams where you screamed his name, clung to him like he was salvation, kissed the soft space of his throat where the mask ended. dreams where you sobbed in his arms, shaking, grateful, his name like a prayer.

sometimes he woke up hard and aching. other times — crying.

because the real you never touched him. never said his name. never looked at him like he was anything more than a hulking wraith that haunted the base.

he started memorizing your routine.

innocent at first. then deliberate. then.. something else.

he’d pass by the rec room when you were there. he didn’t mean to linger, but he did. you’d laugh at someone’s joke. smile even. and his stomach would twist with a hate he couldn’t name.

that’s when the rot started.

he wanted to take you away. hide you. wrap those beautiful wrists in his hands and keep you — safe from them, from the war, from your own freedom. he hated that you could just leave. that you could go home. smile at strangers. kiss someone else.

and yet

he worshipped you. like a sinner kneeling at the altar.

you were his anchor, the last thing that tethered him to anything human. and it was making him sick. filthy with wanting. filthy with shame.

he’d murmur your name when no one could hear. under his breath. a secret spell. sometimes in german, sometimes in english.

”mein engel.”

he convinced himself you felt it too—that something passed between them in those long, silent glances. that you knew. but said nothing, because you were waiting. testing him.

and one day — you did speak.

late night. barracks were quiet. you were heading somewhere — he didn’t ask where. just stepped into your path like a wall.

”can I help you, könig?”

your voice was soft. polite. wary.

he froze. the mask itched. his chest burned. he had no words. he’d rehearsed hundreds. in his bunk. in his head. but now?

now your eyes were on him.

”you follow me,” you said, quietly. “i’ve seen it.”

he didn’t deny it.

you waited for more, but he gave nothing. his fingers flexed by his sides. he wanted to touch you. just once. your face, your neck, the pulse there.

”i’m not scared of you,” you added.

he wanted to say sorry. he wanted to say i love you. he wanted to press his forehead to yours and whisper things that only monsters prayed for.

but all he could say was—

“i dream of you crying.”

your face shifted—just slightly. not fear. not pity. something else.

”you shouldn’t,” you whispered. “that’s not love, könig.”

he nodded, like a condemned man accepts the noose.

“i know.”

and then he walked away, because he had to. because if he didn’t, he would do something awful—something he wouldn’t regret but would never be forgiven for.

and still—he kept dreaming.

still, he waited. because monsters don’t fall in love.

but he had. and it was killing him.