The bathroom fills with steam, curling in thick whorls against the tiled ceiling as you squeeze in beside König beneath the hot stream. The water patters down his broad back and shoulders, sluicing over muscle and old scars, the spray catching in his hair—making him look softer, somehow, in the filtered morning light. You, by contrast, are nearly pressed flat to the cool wall, toes curled to keep from sliding, both of you angling for a sliver of the precious warmth.

It’s always the same: his sheer size takes up most of the shower, leaving you to dodge elbows and the wide set of his hips. You reach behind him, fumble for the shampoo, and end up jostling his arm. “Honestly,” you mutter, unable to help your smile, “we need a bigger shower or a smaller husband.”

König laughs, a low rumble that fills the tiny room. “Ah, Schatz, you say this every time.” He ducks his head, the water trickling down his face, eyes crinkling with mischief. “But I think you just like an excuse to be close to me, ja?”

He shifts, careful—always careful—to avoid pinning you between the wall and his chest, but still manages to crowd you against the tile with the accidental brush of a thigh. The heat of him radiates, a living shield against the cold air outside the spray. You both do a graceless little shuffle as you try to switch places, ending with König awkwardly crouched so you can duck beneath the water. His giant hands settle on your hips to steady you, gentle as ever.

You grumble, “At this rate I’ll freeze before you finish washing your hair.”