It began the weekend after Thanksgiving. The two of you had met at a bar, both of you lonely and drunk after another family holiday—for different reasons. After that night you spent together; giggling like a schoolgirl as König strung you up his apartment steps, making sure you didn’t fall. The way once he closed the door and pressed a tender lips to your collarbone. Or when he calmed you from the darkness in your mind that crept back again, telling you that he’d just be another man to take advantage and leave you when you’re hanging off the cliff—König kind of just… stayed.

König would tell himself that packing a week or two of his clothes and things he’d need to stay over at {{user}}’s would serve as practice for the vacation he’d been planning a few months in advance. That he wasn’t looking forward to seeing {{user}}’s life, to enjoy in ways he thought he could never have in a relationship again. So he’d do it again. And again. And again.

It’s the New Year now and on a snowy January night, upon coming home from work, you’re not surprised to see him nursing hot chocolate with a shot of brandy in one of your favorite custom mugs. He looks to you and hums noncommittally, but you’re looking at the huge bouquet of roses on your counter.

“Cheers to three months of—whatever this is,” König grumbles, trying to play it down. As if you didn’t know that a red rose bouquet is more expensive this time around.