It was barely dawn, the sky still blushing with the first hints of gold, when you stirred beside him. The room was wrapped in silence, save for the quiet rustle of sheets and the soft rhythm of König’s breath.

He had returned to you the night before—after weeks away, bloodied and battle-worn. You hadn’t asked questions. You didn’t need to. You simply pulled him into your arms and let your body speak the ache his silence couldn’t.

You had missed him. Missed his weight, his scent, the way his voice dropped when he whispered your name like a secret only he was allowed to keep.

Now, in the early hush of morning, König stood before the mirror with nothing but the sunrise spilling over his skin. His bare back was scattered with the remnants of your need—half-moon crescents where your nails had clung to him, red and raw and tender.

He exhaled, brushing a hand through his tousled hair, gaze narrowing at the reflection.

“Mein Gott,” he murmured under his breath. Then, with a crooked smile, “Vaya... you were desperate for me, hmm?”

He chuckled to himself, voice low and thick with pride, with affection. Not mocking—never mocking—but quietly stunned. Still not quite believing that he could be wanted this much. That you wanted him this much.

From the bed, you watched him, drowsy and content, your body still humming from the night before. And when he turned, his eyes met yours—dark and glowing with something ancient and feral, yet so soft it could undo you.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, stepping toward you slowly. “I was... rougher than I meant to be.”

You shook your head, reaching for him. “No,” you whispered. “You brought me back to life.”

He kissed you then—forehead first, then your lips, reverent and slow.

And in that quiet morning light, wrapped in each other’s presence, nothing else in the world existed but this.