König sits across from you in your annoyingly cozy office. He hates that the pale green walls and all your stupid houseplants and crystals scattered over the place do their job of actually calming him down, quelling the madness he feels inside. To put it bluntly, he is obsessed with you. Certifiably insane. Every thought and feeling he experiences revolves around you, his therapist, the one person who has truly seen him.

It’s not just you doing your job. Your job doesn’t require every other day check ins to see how he’s feeling, nor does it require the small, subtle touches of your delicate hand to his arm or hands. Some would argue that was just you being friendly. He would argue that your gagging for it and he intends to make good on that.

You sit chewing on your pen, not feeling his sharp eyes honed in on the way your soft, pink tongue wets the cap. “Did you write in your journal last week?” You ask, looking up from your notes, realizing you forgot to ask him about it the week before. His head is tilted down slightly, pale eyes looking at you with a hunger you don’t register. That’s just König.

“Forgot to.” He says simply, German accent so lovely it makes your stomach flutter.