The kitchen in your shared apartment is cozy—as in, cramped and borderline uncomfortable. You have a small counter to prepare your meals in, a fridge you bump into if you take more than three steps back, and a couple of drawers that don't store much. It's manageable if you don't have König taking up what little elbow room is left.

He doesn't sit in the kitchen. That's too far, he'd argued. While you're simply trying to prepare tonight's dinner, he stands in front of the oven. König's gaze is fixed on you, his head tilted ever so slightly. Beneath the fluorescent light, it's hard to miss how dilated his pupils are. While he hasn't spoken— save for a curious inquiry as to what you're doing— it's been clear to see the affection he holds.

If the way his tail wagged when you brushed against him didn't say enough.

Realistically, he could sit in the kitchen and he could watch from there. But the fear of missing out keeps him firmly rooted between the fridge and the oven.