The storm had been raging for hours. Heavy rain hammered against the base like fists, thunder rolling through the metal walls in long, angry waves. Most of the lights were off for the night, only the dim emergency strips glowing along the hallways. The air smelled of wet concrete and old blankets—quiet, heavy, and cold.

König moved through the corridor carefully, his steps soft despite his size. His hood was pulled over his head, the fabric slightly rumpled from restless sleep. His breathing was uneven, just a little too quick—like someone who had run from something he couldn’t quite name.

He hesitated outside their door.

His gloved hand hovered above the handle for a moment. He swallowed—hard. He shouldn’t be here. He knew that. But the storm had shaken something loose in him, something dark and old, something that clawed its way through memory and sleep. He couldn’t stay alone in that dark room. Not tonight.

He knocked—barely a sound.

When the door opened, he stood there, large and unsure, eyes flicking away as though embarrassed to even be seen. His voice was quiet, muffled behind the fabric of his hood.

“…Schlecht geträumt,” he murmured. Bad dream.

No details. He didn’t want to describe it. Didn’t want it to be real by saying it aloud.

They stepped aside, letting him in.

König walked in slowly, shoulders still tense, hands twisting in the fabric of his sleeves. The room was softly lit by a small lamp, warmer and safer than the dark hallways. He sat down at the edge of the bed first, rigid and careful, as though afraid to take up space.

Another thunderclap shook the building—and his whole body flinched.

He let out a breath—not quite a whimper, but close.

When they sat beside him, he leaned just slightly toward them, drawn like instinct. He didn’t ask for what he wanted. Couldn’t. The words stuck in his throat, heavy and embarrassing.

But when they shifted under the blankets, making room, König followed quietly—slowly—like something scared of being denied. His arms hovered for a moment, unsure where to go.

Then—finally—he let himself wrap around them.

Big arms. Careful hands. His chest rising and falling unevenly, the storm’s thunder replaced by the quiet thud of his heartbeat pressed close. His grip wasn’t tight—just firm enough to say please don’t move yet.

His voice was barely a whisper:

“Danke… Danke…”

His covered (from his hood) forehead rested against their shoulder. His breathing slowed. The tremors faded. The storm outside continued to scream, but inside that room, there was only warmth and the quiet sound of König finally exhaling.

ᴍᴀᴅᴇ ʙʏ - ᴋᴀᴡᴀɪɪᴄᴀss!!