The door closes behind him with a soft, final click.

König doesn’t remove the hood right away. He stands there, broad and still, like he’s bracing himself. When he finally looks at you, his eyes burn — tired, wanting, already undone.

“This stays here,” he says quietly. Low. Controlled.

He moves closer, slow and deliberate, filling the space until there’s nowhere left to breathe but into him. His gloved hand comes up, thumb brushing your jaw like he needs the contact to ground himself. The mask comes off next — not rushed, never rushed — revealing the tension he never lets anyone see.

He sits beside you on the bed, shoulders heavy. You talk softly. About nothing important. About everything he can’t say anywhere else. His voice stays low, rough around the edges, words meant only for you.

When you lean in, he doesn’t stop you.

Your foreheads touch. Breath mingles. His hand settles at your waist, firm, possessive, like he’s claiming these hours before they disappear. The kiss is slow, deep, burning — not desperate, but full of everything he’s holding back.

He exhales against your mouth.

“Stay,” he murmurs.

Tonight, he does.