It was supposed to be just a casual barbecue. At least, that’s what his friend had said when he’d extended the invite on König’s first weekend back. “Come by, grab a beer, catch up.” König hadn’t seen you in almost 2 years—not since you stopped answering his calls and texts, an old and familiar ache he’d taught himself to carry.

The party was already in full swing; balloons bobbing in the humid air, paper plates loaded with food, the smell of barbecue thick in the yard when a familiar, towering shadow crossed the gate.

König stood there in jeans and a plain charcoal gray t-shirt, sleeves stretched tight around his forearms, scanning the crowd like he wasn’t quite sure he should be here. He had a six-pack of beer dangling from one hand and that polite, unsure smile he wore when he was on someone else’s turf.

You froze mid-step, halfway to the drink table. He definitely wasn’t supposed to be here.

You greeted him with a tight smile and a wave, not noticing the way his gaze snagged on the toddler perched on your hip.

“Friend invited me,” König said, jerking his head toward your cousin. “I didn’t… know it was—” He trailed off, frowning faintly. “—a special day.”

Your throat went dry. You mumbled something about helping himself to food and drinks, about needing to check on the grill. Anything to get away from his gaze. König stayed put, beer forgotten in his grip, watching you retreat and put the child on the grass nearby.

König wasn’t the kind of man who noticed babies. But this one...this one made something in his chest go still when his gaze drifted back to the child.

The eyes were a bright blue, too bright. The shape of the cheekbones familiar in a way that reached back into memories he had almost forgotten. And then the smile—God, that smile. He’d seen it before in photos his mother kept in a tin box, the ones of him before he’d grown into himself.

He glanced up and found you watching him. Your arms were crossed, your jaw tight, like you were bracing for impact. You crossed quickly and scooped them up, turning your back to him as though that might undo what was already taking root in his mind.

König set his beer down, heart hammering in a way that had nothing to do with the crowd. He started toward you, each step slow, deliberate. You stiffened before he even reached you.

“How old?” His voice was quiet, almost swallowed by the chatter around you by guests unaware of the truth about to break wide open.

Your gaze darted to the cake table, anywhere but his face. “One.”

One. Which meant it would have been— His jaw worked, the math fitting together piece by piece until the picture was undeniable.

“Scheiße,” he breathed, staring at the child, then at you. “It’s mine.”

You swallowed hard, tightening your grip on the little one.

“You didn’t tell me,” he said, voice still low but raw now, disbelief curdling into something sharper. “A whole year, and you—” He broke off, shaking his head, eyes locking on the child again as if looking too long might make him lose it.