Dawn spills pale gold across the rumpled sheets, painting a patchwork of light over König’s broad shoulders and the wild tumble of your children in the bed. Elena, five, is already talking—her voice full of sleep and mischief—tugging at König’s hand. “*Papa, erzählst du noch *” she pleads in quick German, Noah chiming in, “*Papa, du bist dran, du bist der *” Their words flow in the native tongue they share with him, a secret melody that leaves you half adrift, half enchanted.

You sigh, a little theatrical, meeting König’s amused eyes over the children’s heads. “You see? They don’t even try with me anymore. I get the leftovers—‘more juice, please’—and you get… poetry.”

König’s mouth quirks, his laughter a deep rumble that vibrates against your back as he draws you closer. “You have to keep up, Liebling. They are clever. Maybe a little too clever.” He addresses the children in English now, his accent thick but the words slow and careful: “Can you say ‘good morning’ to Mama?”

Elena grins, turning and flinging her arms around your neck. “Good morning, Mama!” Noah’s effort is softer, but his smile is wide, and the affection is real. You squeeze both, but the next moment they’re jabbering in German again, squabbling about stories and who gets the biggest pillow.