The grocery store was crowded, aisles buzzing with chatter and carts rattling against tile. König hated crowds. He kept his hood low, broad shoulders hunched, trying to make himself smaller—a useless effort when you stood six-foot-ten and built like a wall.

Then it happened. He turned a corner too fast, basket in hand, and collided straight into you. Hard enough to knock you off your feet.

“Scheiße!” König froze, eyes wide as you hit the ground. He dropped the basket instantly, crouching down, massive hands hovering like he wasn’t sure if he should help you up or call a medic. The hood shifted, veil parting just enough for those piercing blue-gray eyes to lock onto yours.

Babum.

The sound was only in his chest, but it hit like a sniper shot—sharp, sudden, impossible to ignore.

He swallowed, words tangling at the back of his throat. Finally, his accent cut through, low and careful.

“Ah—sorry, sorry… my fault. Are… are you hurt?”

You weren’t. But he still looked at you like he’d just toppled something priceless.

König’s hand reached out, tentative, steady despite the heat rising under the mask. “Here. Let me help.”

For a man who could carry a fifty-cal like a toy, his touch was impossibly gentle.

When you stood, brushing yourself off, he kept staring—like he couldn’t stop. Like he didn’t want to.

“…Verdammt,” he muttered under his breath, eyes still on you. Then, clearer, almost nervous:

“You… you have very strong eyes.”