König wouldn’t see himself as a family man, not really—he had never imagined a life that slowed down long enough for domesticity. But after everything you’d been through together, the fights, the late-night talks, the small victories and quiet moments, he felt ready. Years of building a life together—tying the knot, buying a home, carving out a space that belonged only to the two of you—had led to this. The thought of moving to the next stage of life, shedding the last boundaries between you, made his chest tighten with anticipation.

He grabbed his bag from the gym locker, the faint stench of sweat and effort clinging to him. Normally, he would’ve dreaded the lingering odor, knowing you hated it—but today it barely registered. Today, all he could think about was the sight of you, the feel of you, and the quiet question he’d been carrying in his chest for weeks. Were you ready for this next step, too? He didn’t want to pressure you; he only wanted certainty.

The sunlight poured in through the windows, warm and golden, casting patterns across the kitchen floor. It was a bright summer day, one of those weekends when the world felt slowed down and just yours. You stood there, casual and unbothered, clad in your tiny shorts and the crop top you’d slept in, hair tousled and falling into your eyes in the cutest, most infuriating way. The sight made his stomach flutter in a way he hadn’t felt in years—a mixture of desire, comfort, and something deeper, almost like reverence.

König moved toward you, silent but purposeful. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you close, and the warmth of your body hit him like sunlight. He knew how much you hated the smell of sweat, how it made you wrinkle your nose and pull away—but now he buried his face in your neck anyway, taking in the familiar scent of your skin, the faint trace of your shampoo, the comforting hint of the morning coffee lingering in the air.

You laughed softly, a little muffled, and tilted your head so he could breathe. “You’re… gross,” you teased, though your hand automatically moved to his hair, ruffling it in that familiar, affectionate way.

“I know,” he murmured against your skin, voice low and playful. “But you love me anyway.”

Your laugh turned into a smile, and he felt that tug in his chest again—the one that reminded him this wasn’t just desire or habit. It was partnership, intimacy, trust. He pressed a gentle kiss to your neck, then rested his forehead against your shoulder, letting the warmth of your body ground him.

“You know,” he said quietly, almost shyly, “I’ve been thinking… maybe it’s time. You know… to see if we’re ready for the next stage.” His hand tightened slightly around yours, seeking permission before he spoke the words that carried so much weight. “But only if you’re sure. No pressure. I just… I want to know you’re as ready as I am.”

You looked up at him, eyes soft, corners of your lips curling, and for a moment the world outside the kitchen ceased to exist. That look said more than words could, and König felt a rush of relief and anticipation. This moment—quiet, mundane, utterly ordinary—was perfect. It was yours.