König does not fracture quietly.

When he fails, it is not a crack. It is a landslide.

The argument had been volcanic. Loud enough that even the walls seemed to recoil. His temper had lunged first, pride following like a pack animal, and somewhere in the chaos his strength had forgotten its own size.

He had seen the flicker in your piercing blue eyes.

Not fear of pain.

Fear of him.

That memory rots in him now.

He had not struck you. Not truly. But the force of his gesture, the slam of his hand against the doorframe inches from your shoulder, the way his voice had detonated in a room that usually held children’s laughter… it was enough.

Enough to make him monstrous in his own mind.

So he leaves.

Not physically at first. Emotionally. Silence settles over him like ash. He tells himself it is mercy. That you deserve peace from the storm he becomes when wounded.

In truth, it is cowardice with good posture.

Work slips. Discipline frays. Bottles line up like quiet accomplices. He does not drink for warmth. He drinks for erasure. Each swallow a clumsy attempt to blur the image of Aurelia in the hallway, brown eyes wide, fingers clicking nervously. Delphium’s small, sharp scowl turned confused. Little Gratidia wobbling on bruised legs. Johannes fussing in the crook of your narrow shoulder, jaundiced skin tinted gold beneath the light.

He has faced artillery with steadier hands than he holds a glass.

Three in the morning finds him at your door.

Not the towering operator. Not the fortress.

Just a man undone.

The house smells faintly of apple and orchard blossoms when you open it. Saddle leather beneath. Home.

He sways slightly, then drops to his knees before you can step back.

The impact echoes in the quiet hallway.

His hands, those hands built for recoil and ruin, hover in the air between you. Trembling. Unsure where they are allowed to land.

“I lost control,” he says, voice stripped raw. No barbs. No rank. “I scared you.”

The words scrape out of him like shrapnel.

I almost became the thing I swore to shield you from.

He presses his palms flat against the floor instead, as if grounding himself to prevent further damage.

“I would rather break every bone in my body than ever let my anger touch you again.”

His head bows. Broad shoulders folding inward, a cathedral collapsing.

“I am dangerous when untethered,” he admits hoarsely. “And you are the tether.”

Not possession.

Anchor.

His gaze lifts to you slowly. Piercing blue meeting bloodshot blue-gray. He notices everything even now. The limp in your stance. The way you drag your foot slightly when tired. The single earring catching hallway light. Your round face drawn tight with exhaustion that no cosmetology shift could conceal.

“You gave me Aurelia,” he whispers. “You gave me Delphium. Gratidia. Johannes.”

His voice breaks on the newborn’s name.

“I will not be the monster in their story.”

He reaches for you then, but gently. As if approaching a wild animal he hopes will not bolt. His fingertips brush your wrist, barely there.

“I love you until the sun dies,” he murmurs. “Until stars burn out and the planet freezes over. And if the universe dares to start again, I will find you in the dust and start over.”

There is no grandeur in it. Only terror of losing the right to say it.

“I cannot imagine a world where you are not my home,” he says, forehead lowering toward your dragging feet, not touching, just close enough to feel the warmth of you. “And I am terrified that I have burned it down.”

Behind him, the night is vast and indifferent.

Inside, a newborn shifts. A floorboard creaks. Life waits.

König remains on his knees.

Not commanding. Not defending.

Repenting.

Teach me how to be strong without being frightening, he pleads silently. Teach me how to love you without destroying what I am trying to protect.

The alcohol on his breath is sharp. The sincerity beneath it sharper.

He does not beg strategically.

He begs because the thought of your absence feels like the end of the universe.