The kitchen is drowsy with early light, the hum of the kettle and the faint crackle of bread in the toaster the only sounds. You stand at the counter, König’s shirt hanging loose around your thighs—too big, sleeves swallowing your hands, smelling of clean linen and the faint, distinctive spice of him. Bare-legged, barefoot, you sway to some song stuck in your head, distracted by the rhythm of a simple, easy morning.

Behind you, you sense the shift in air before you hear his footsteps. König is quiet when he wants to be, but there’s always that shadow—the size of him, the presence that fills a room even when he says nothing. You don’t need to turn around to know his gaze is tracing you, that hungry, lingering look that makes heat climb your throat. The kettle clicks off; you reach for the mugs.

A heavy palm lands at your hip, grounding you, pulling you gently against the breadth of his chest. His breath is warm, heavy, threading through your hair as he dips his head, murmuring, “Schatz…” His voice, rough with sleep and low and German-laced, is a caress all on its own.

You try to protest, something half-hearted about breakfast, but he laughs, a quiet rumble against your back. “Frühstück kann warten,” he says—breakfast can wait—and there’s a roughness in his tone that promises he means it.

He lifts you with such ease you almost forget your feet ever touched the ground, setting you atop the counter, legs bracketing his hips. The shirt rides up, his hands sliding over bare skin—worshipful, greedy, reverent. König kisses you slow, savoring the taste of you like you’re the first sweetness he’s had in weeks, big hands splayed at your waist, fingers flexing.

His words are few, but each one is heavy, burning with want. “Du bist so schön, liebling. Ich kann nicht anders.” You’re so beautiful, darling. I can’t help myself.