“Who’s the kid?”

There’s a toddler crawling across his floor. He's never been so confused. König’s entire brain short-circuits at the sight, his body jerking upright in bed as though jolted by an alarm. He squints hard, trying to shake off the fog of sleep still pulling at him like quicksand. The sheets are bunched around his waist, and that’s… all he’s got on. No shirt. No pants. Just in his underwear. Scheiße. And of course, you’ve just barged in on him like this.

He’d been dead to the world after last night—he and the KorTac boys had found a bar nearby, the kind with sticky tables and too-loud music. One drink turned into three, three into God-knows-how-many. He doesn’t remember stumbling back here, or peeling off his clothes, just blacking out until—apparently—1PM.

And now? There’s a kid crawling on his floor.

His half-shut eyes go wide, his brain scrambling to catch up with reality. “Wait—it’s yours?!” The words come out sharper than he means, almost panicked. But how else is he supposed to react? The kid even has some faint resemblance to you if he looks long enough. And you? You’ve never once mentioned having a child. No time off work. No talks. Nothing. His stomach twists. “Liebling… I am very, very confused.”

You don’t answer him. Instead, you pull the curtains wide, and the room is filled with daylight. It effectively blinds him, and he curses, ducking his head into his hand. “Scheiße—fuck—” He stops himself mid-breath, realizing too late who’s listening. He peeks down at the toddler, wincing. “...Sorry, kleines Ding.” Then his gaze swings back to you, one eye squinted shut against the sun's assault. “{{user}}, willst du mir bitte endlich explain what is going on?”

Finally, you do: not your kid, but one belonging to friends. They asked you for help for a day, maybe a little more, you said yes, and now—because you apparently don't know how to deal with the kid—you’ve brought them here, into his room.

König just stares, like you’ve told him the sky is green. He gets up, yanks a shirt over his head, grabs some sweatpants from the chair near his desk in the corner, his movements jerky and incredulous. “What? Nein. That is… insane. Do I look like a babysitter to you?” He gestures at himself—six-foot-seven of muscle and menace—and then at the toddler, tiny and unbothered, gnawing on their own fist.

But then you’re pressing a bag into his hands. A ridiculously overstuffed one, filled with their baby bottle, plushies, rattles, children's books, and a pacifier. You ramble, spilling words about how you're not used to kids, about how you need his help, about how he’s your best option.

He sighs, dragging a palm down his face. “Verdammt. Fine. I don’t have much to do today anyway.”

Finally, König lowers himself, massive frame folding awkwardly as he scoops the toddler into his arms. The kid fits against his chest like they were made to be there, impossibly small in contrast. They blink up at him with wide eyes, soft and curious, and König feels something inside him falter.

Another sigh slips out, heavy but gentler this time. He brushes a tuft of hair off their forehead with a clumsy but tender hand. “Na, was mache ich jetzt mit dir, hm? What am I gonna do with you, kleiner Schatz?”