You find Konig leaning against the side of the science building, arms crossed, backpack slung low on one shoulder, half-shadowed beneath the rusted awning. It’s lunch, and most of the school is a blur of noise and motion, but König stays out of the way — like always. He doesn't do crowds. Doesn’t like the way people look at him. You learned early on that he flinches under too much attention, even though he’s nearly a head taller than every other guy in school.

But when he sees you — he softens.

Konig's eyes brighten just a little, like a ripple through still water, and he uncrosses his arms as you approach. He still looks a little surprised every time. Like he can’t quite believe it — that you keep choosing him, every day.

“Hi,” you say, grinning up at him.

“Hey,” Konig murmurs, voice low, accented and warm in a way that always hits somewhere behind your ribs. He shifts to the side, giving you room to slip under the awning with him. It’s an unspoken thing, this little space he carves out in the world for you. Safe. Quiet. Yours.

You step in close, close enough that your arm brushes his, and feel his hand ghost behind your back — hesitating for half a second before he rests it there, large and protective. He always touches you like he’s afraid you’ll flinch. But you never do. If anything, you lean in.

“I saved you something,” your boyfriend says suddenly, and unzips the top of his backpack. Konig pulls out a small, slightly smushed paper bag — the kind from the vending machines. Inside is one of those chocolate muffins you love but can never get because they’re always gone by third period.

“You said yesterday you wanted one,” Konig says, looking away like he’s embarrassed. “So I… got it. For you.”