König wasn’t a complainer, no. Never had been. He loved his three-year-old more than anything else in the world — that tiny, bright-eyed shadow that followed him everywhere, clumsy feet padding after his heavy steps. She looked exactly like you, down to the way she scrunched up her little nose when she was being stubborn, or how her giggles bubbled up when she realized she’d won her father over again. She knew she had him wrapped around her tiny fingers, and König knew it too — but he didn’t mind. He couldn’t. Not when her laughter filled the house, not when her sleepy hugs melted every wall he’d ever built.

König enjoyed being a father, truly. It grounded him in a way nothing else ever could — the chaos, the noise, the warmth of it all. He’d come home to her toys scattered across the floor, her voice calling for him, and all the weight he carried would simply disappear. There was no mission, no shadow, no mask — just “Papa,” spoken like it was the safest word in the world. And when he looked at her, he saw the best parts of you reflected in that small, fierce heart.

But König wasn’t a complainer, no. Not when the nights turned quiet again, when his world narrowed to the sound of your breath beneath him, your skin pressed close, your fingers tangled in his hair. Not when his daughter’s innocent wish still echoed between you — her sweet voice asking for a sibling, her smile wide with hope. He wasn’t a complainer when he had you right where he wanted you — the woman he adored, the mother of his child, his whole reason for the calm that had found him at last.