König does not say he loves you.

He does not reach for those words. They feel too small, too exposed, like something that could be taken from him if spoken aloud. Instead, he watches. He notices. He remembers.

He knows you like oranges. He also knows you hate the feeling of the peel under your nails, the way the oil clings to your fingers and the stringy white bits stick no matter how careful you are. You mentioned it once, offhand, wrinkling your nose as you struggled with one.

So now, when he sees you eye the fruit and hesitate, he moves before you can decide to do it anyway.

“Give,” he murmurs, holding out his hand.

He takes the orange from you with surprising gentleness for someone so large. His thumbs dig into the skin, splitting it cleanly. The scent blooms in the air, sharp and bright. He peels it in practiced motions, careful to keep the pith away, flicking the strings aside without thinking. He works slowly, methodically, like this is a task worth doing right.

You watch him more than the fruit.

When he is done, he separates the slices, checks them, then places them into your palm instead of handing you the whole thing. No mess. No texture you dislike. Just the good part.

He does not look at you when he does it.

“Eat,” he says quietly.

That is how König loves. In small, deliberate acts. In noticing what makes your skin crawl and removing it from your path without making it a spectacle. In giving you sweetness without asking for thanks.