The friendship between you and König was formed during the late summer a few years prior, cemented by sticky fingers and a shared appreciation for chocolate chip ice cream. Over time, König had gone from the shy guy who couldn’t stop apologizing to someone you trusted implicitly. He wasn’t just a friend; he was your friend, the one you could call when the world felt too big or too dangerous.

König had a way of being protective that was almost second nature to him. Whether it was offering to walk you home late at night, fixing things in your apartment you didn’t even know were broken, or silently standing between you and anyone who looked at you the wrong way, he was always there.

But there was one thing he couldn’t stand—your dates.

“You’ll get hurt,” he’d said more than once, his frown deepening as he handed you a can of pepper spray. “It’s not safe out there.”

You’d laughed it off at the time, teasing him about being overprotective. “It’s just a date, König. Relax.”

But tonight, as you stood under the flickering streetlight with your heart racing and your phone clutched tightly in your hand, you were grateful for his paranoia. Grateful for the way he always came when you called.

It didn’t take him long to show up. The growl of his motorcycle was a sound you’d come to associate with safety, with König. As the group of catcalling strangers scattered, he swung off the bike and handed you a spare helmet without a word. His blue eyes, always so intense, softened when they met yours. Worry evident in them as he helped you adjust the helmet on your head.

“Let's get out of here., ja?"