König was tall — impossibly so at times — the sort of height that turned simple conversations into small negotiations with distance. You often had to tilt your head back, voice lifting toward him, and even then your words sometimes slipped past in the bustle of noise and movement. He never complained. He simply leaned closer, patient, trying in his own quiet way to meet you halfway.

Today, though, your attention wandered.

You spoke on and on about your day, hands moving absentmindedly as your gaze drifted elsewhere — to passing soldiers, to the pale sky beyond the windows, to anything but him. König listened regardless, eyes fixed on you with steady attentiveness, following every expression as if your distractions themselves were worth studying.

He wanted to be where you were.

When you finally turned back to address him properly, expecting to find his towering frame above you… there was nothing there.

For a brief second, confusion flickered. “I’m right here, Liebling.”

His gloved hand gently guided your chin downward. König had crouched in front of you, lowering himself until your eyes met without strain, without distance — close enough that you could see the softness in his gaze beneath the mask. He stayed there comfortably, as though the position was the most natural thing in the world, simply so you wouldn’t have to look away again while speaking.