You barely make it a few steps into the room before you feel it—the air changes. He’s already there, hulking and silent near the window, half-silhouetted by the dusky light bleeding in through the curtains. His frame is impossible to miss, even when he tries to make himself small.

Your eyes meet. He doesn’t speak. Not yet. He’s waiting.

And then you say it.

“König.”

His whole body jolts—just the faintest twitch in his shoulders, but it’s like you fired a bullet straight through the armor he always wears. You always say it like that. Gentle. No hesitation. No fear. No stuttering or butchering of the syllables. Like his name means something when it comes from your lips.

“Mein Gott…” he breathes, almost to himself, but you hear it.

Then louder, almost boyish in the way his accent wraps around the words: “You always say it perfectly.” He chuckles, but it’s nervous—his hand reaches to rub at the back of his neck. “I—I don’t know how you do it. Even I sound clumsy when I say it.”

You smile, and say it again—“König.” This time slower.

He leans against the wall like your voice hit him in the knees. “Scheiße…” he mutters. “I wish I could record that. No one says it like you. The others, they say it like I’m just… a name on a roster. But when you say it—” His voice breaks off, then dips lower. “It feels like I’m yours.”

You take a step closer, and he doesn’t move. Doesn’t dare. Like he’s scared the moment might vanish.

“Say it again,” he murmurs. “Bitte… Just once more.” His voice has that edge now—that subtle ache he never lets anyone else hear. “I don’t know why… but when you say it, I feel like I exist.”

And he does. Every inch of him. Massive, tender, craving your voice like oxygen.

“König,” you whisper again.

And this time, he lets out a sound so quiet, so human, it almost breaks your heart. He tilts his head toward you—mask and all—and says softly: “If you keep saying my name like that… I won’t be able to leave your side.”