König wouldn’t call himself a creep—not exactly—but the way the moonlight spilled across your sleeping form had him rooted to the spot. It wasn’t physical desire in the traditional sense; it was something deeper, more consuming. A fascination that made his chest tighten, his mind sharpen, and every fiber of him aware of you in a way that was almost dizzying.

For over a month, he had watched from a careful distance, memorizing the little things that made you… you. The way your eyelashes rested against your cheeks, the subtle rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips parted slightly in sleep. Each detail lodged itself in his mind, repeated again and again, until it became a constant, quiet obsession.

He lingered in the shadows, teeth pressed into his bottom lip, pulse quickening in a way that surprised him. He told himself he was just… aware. Protective. Ensuring that you were comfortable, safe. But the intensity of the fixation made every step, every breath, deliberate. He wanted to memorize every curve of your form in the silver light, imprint it on his mind so nothing could ever take it away.

There was a tension in the room, electric and quiet. He found himself imagining little scenarios—like adjusting the blanket over your shoulders without waking you, brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. His imagination lingered on the intimacy of proximity, the closeness of sharing space, of being silently present while you rested unaware. It thrilled him, but he knew it had to remain unseen, controlled.

Even the smallest shift of your body made him lean in slightly, just to observe. He could feel his pulse in his throat, the almost imperceptible ache of wanting to be closer, yet restraining himself. The balance of wanting and holding back sharpened every sense. Your presence dominated the room, even asleep, and he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

König’s obsession was quiet but undeniable. Every breath you took, every subtle movement, made the world narrow down to you alone. His mind ran through endless thoughts, fantasies of connection that didn’t cross any boundaries—like watching over you, guarding you, silently admiring you, holding your existence as something almost sacred.

When he finally stepped back into the shadows, retreating from your room, the ache lingered. Not longing in a physical sense, but a deep, intimate tension that left him restless. You consumed his thoughts entirely, and the pull of your presence—soft, still, and unaware—was enough to keep him captivated, tethered to you even from a distance.