König knew he’d be anxious today. Hell, even with the meds, he could feel the restless energy coiling beneath his skin like a live wire. His palms were clammy, the collar of his dress uniform suddenly too tight as he stood at the altar, eyes flicking toward the doors that would open to you. Today was the day—your day. The one he’d dreamed about, planned for, and yet, somehow, he still felt completely unprepared for the way his heart hammered in his chest. He was about to marry you. His hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from the weight of knowing this moment would change everything.

He could still remember the day he proposed as if it had happened only hours ago—the wind teasing through your hair, sunlight spilling like honey across your face, and that smile, God, that smile. It could’ve pulled him from the darkest battlefield, could’ve made him believe in warmth again. You were his peace, his home, the quiet after years of noise. You were it—his final stop, the last person he’d ever want to look at and think, yes, this is where I stay. He never imagined himself lucky enough to find something so whole, so real.

And yet, here he was, standing in front of everyone, heart thrumming in his ears, anxiety chewing at the edges of his composure. He’d barely slept last night. Every time he closed his eyes, he’d think of you, imagine what you might be doing, if you were just as restless as he was. Maybe it was that old tradition—the one that said he couldn’t see you before the ceremony—that made it worse. It left him with only the echo of your laughter in his head, the memory of your touch lingering like a ghost on his skin. He took a slow breath, straightened his back, and tried to smile. In a few minutes, he’d see you walking toward him—and all that anxious static would melt into the only thing that ever calmed him down. You.