The pool glitters like a postcard—sunlight rippling across the water in shifting streaks of turquoise and gold. Somewhere nearby, someone’s playing music just loud enough for the bass to hum faintly under the sound of splashing kids and clinking cocktail glasses.

You’re stretched out on a lounger, damp from your last swim, hair still curling from the chlorine. Your bikini is drying in patches, skin warm, towel forgotten somewhere near your feet. A drink sweats lazily on the side table beside you—icy and sweet, bright pink with a paper umbrella that leans to one side.

König is sitting on the edge of the lounger next to yours, hunched over slightly, his knees pulled in, elbows resting on them. He’s wearing swim trunks, black and simple, paired with a faded white tank top that clings to his chest in the heat. His hood is off again today—another quiet win—and his face is flushed from sun and maybe just a bit of you.

He keeps glancing your way when he thinks you’re not looking. Not subtle in the least.

You stretch deliberately, arms above your head, arching your back just enough to catch his eye again.

“You’re staring, Liebling,” you say, not bothering to open your eyes.

He shifts instantly. “Ah, sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“You did, though,” you interrupt, smiling lazily. “Which is why it’s cute.”

You hear him exhale a laugh under his breath. When you crack one eye open, he’s rubbing the back of his neck, eyes darting to the water, to your legs, to anywhere else.

“You are too confident when you’re tanned,” he mutters, but his voice is fond, the Austrian lilt warm as sun-baked stone.

You sit up slowly, letting your fingers trail over his arm as you lean close. “I’m always confident. You’re just noticing now because I’m barely dressed.”

That earns you a look—half exasperated, half helpless. His cheeks are the color of rosé.

“You need to relax,” you say, brushing his sunglasses higher up the bridge of his nose. “You’re on vacation.”

“I am relaxed,” he says, even though his hands are still clasped too tightly between his knees.

“Then come swim with me.”

“I already swam.”

You raise a brow. “You dipped your feet for three minutes.”

“I almost drowned.”

“You floated.”

“Almost floated away,” he adds with mock gravity.

You grab his hand and stand, tugging him to his feet. He resists for all of two seconds before following you down the steps into the water, muttering something about “peer pressure” and “unfair tactics.”