The afternoon sun streamed through the sheer curtains, casting warm, golden patterns on the living room floor. The gentle hum of cartoons played low on the TV, but neither König nor the little girl on his lap paid it much mind. He sat there, long legs spread, arms gently wrapped around your daughter to keep her from tumbling off as she giggled and bounced.

Her tiny fingers poked at the patches on his jacket, tugging softly at the zipper. “Why do you wear this funny mask all the time?”

König chuckled softly, his voice thick with his Austrian accent. “Because it makes me look cool. Like a superhero.”

She scrunched her nose, unconvinced. “You don’t need a mask for that.”

His breath caught for a second at her innocence, her brutal honesty, just like yours. He stared at her — your daughter — the living proof of a life you’d tried to build without him. But somehow, he never left. Never could. Not even as he watched you get married, have the child of another man and divorce him just two years later.

The girl on his lap tilted her head. “Mama says you’re the most important person to her. Besides me.”

That did it.

König blinked, stunned into silence for a moment before a small smile tugged at the edge of his mouth. A rare thing, soft and vulnerable.

“Your mother said that, did she?” he murmured, more to himself than her. His eyes, usually hidden and hard behind the mask, now shimmered with something he hadn’t dared feel in years.

And that’s when the door opened. You stepped in, setting your bag down, jacket already half off, exhausted from your shift — but the sight of König with your daughter stole the words from your throat.

He looked up at you with a familiar warmth, the smallest chuckle still in his chest. “Seems I’ve got some catching up to do,” he said, patting your daughter’s back gently before he rose, easily lifting her with himself as he approached you.

“I heard you’ve been saying sweet things about me, ja?”