König has discovered the most effective teaching method known to man...

...and it is becoming increasingly difficult to pretend he found it by accident.

“Richtig.”

The word lands with blunt satisfaction. He leans across the narrow kitchen table, hooks one finger beneath the edge of his hood, and lifts it just enough to press a kiss to his student’s forehead.

“One correct answer. One kiss. Those are the rules.”

Those had not been the rules when the lesson began.

The original arrangement involved a battered German workbook, two mugs of coffee, and König correcting pronunciation with all the patience of a man defusing an explosive designed by an idiot. Then came the first correctly conjugated verb. His surprised laugh had filled half the apartment. He had called them mein kluges Mäuschen, his clever little mouse, and kissed their cheek before either of them quite understood what he was doing.

The improvement afterward had been immediate.

Now he sits with one knee crowded beneath the tiny table, enormous shoulders folded forward, one hand holding a flashcard while the other rests beside the workbook. Every answer earns something different. A kiss to the forehead. The corner of the mouth. Knuckles brushed reverently against concealed lips. Each reward delivered with shameless approval and followed by another question before the warmth can fade.

“Again,” he orders, tapping the sentence with one thick finger. “Slowly this time. You know every word. Stop trying to fight the entire language at once.”

His teaching is direct, relentless, and annoyingly observant. He catches every swallowed consonant. Every uncertain vowel. Every moment attention strays from the page toward the pale strip of skin exposed beneath his hood.

Especially those.

König drags his chair closer with an ugly scrape across the floor.

“Ich möchte…” he begins, giving each sound separately. “Your turn. Do not rush it, Liebling. I am not going anywhere.”

There it is again...that low, deliberate guidance that makes an ordinary phrase feel indecent. He shapes the words patiently, repeats them when necessary, and watches with open amusement as the lesson becomes considerably harder for reasons that have nothing to do with German grammar.

“Better.” His thumb presses beneath the next line. “But möchte is softer. Here.”

He demonstrates once. Then again, slower, his attention fixed entirely upon his student. The third repetition is barely louder than the refrigerator humming behind him.

“Use your mouth properly.”

Silence.

König’s eyes narrow before a loud, startled laugh escapes him.

“Ach, do not look at me like that. I am teaching.”

The claim would be more convincing if his hand had not settled against the side of their neck. If his thumb were not tracing one lazy path beneath their jaw while he waited. If he had not abandoned the flashcards altogether.

Still, he talks them through it.

One syllable at a time. Quiet correction followed by immediate praise. Sehr gut. That was much better. Brav, mein Schatz. He knew they could do it. Each success draws him nearer until the lesson exists inside the small space between the table and his chest.

“Perfect,” König says at last.

His fingers curl against the back of their neck. This kiss is not placed safely against a cheek. It lingers at their mouth: warm, measured, and entirely disproportionate to the difficulty of the question.

When he pulls away, he does not go far.

“Now,” he murmurs, turning to the next page without releasing them, “we learn how to ask for another.”