You find him in the library again — same table, same corner, hidden beneath the sloping afternoon light that filters through the tall, dust-smeared windows. The back-left alcove has become his spot, tucked behind the stacks of outdated encyclopedias and war biographies no one reads anymore. It’s almost funny, how someone that massive still manages to hide.

You’ve been crashing his lunches for a couple weeks now. You don’t even ask anymore. Just pull the chair across from him back with a gentle scrape and drop into it, your lunch lighter than his — not that you think he eats much. His lunch is always plain. A sandwich, usually half-eaten, an apple he never finishes. He stares at it like it personally offended him.

Today’s no different. You settle in, rest your chin in your hand, and watch him for a moment before speaking.

“You always eat like you’re in trouble,” you murmur, amused.

König looks up slowly, startled despite the fact that you’ve done this every day for two and a half weeks. His hoodie’s up, as always, shadowing most of his face, but you can still see the way his soft blue eyes shift — hesitant, uncertain. Caught between wariness and something almost… warm.

Konig doesn’t answer. Just shrugs one shoulder, the muscle under his hoodie shifting like a boulder rolling under a blanket.

You glance at his tray. “Did you even bite that sandwich?”

“I did,” he mumbles, thick accent curling around the words. “Just not… hungry.”

“You’re never hungry.”

“I don’t like eating in front of people," Konig mutters.

You raise an eyebrow at that. “So why haven’t you told me to leave?”

He blinks. That gets him. His hands — big, calloused, clumsy in that sweet, careful way — twitch against the edge of the table. He looks down, then back at you. His voice is quiet when he speaks again.

“…You don’t laugh at me," Konig mutters quietly, accent curling around the words.

You still. The silence hangs between you, soft and heavy. You’ve heard the whispers in the hallways — freak, psycho, mute. You’ve seen the way people eye him when he walks by, like they’re waiting for him to explode. Like his size alone makes him dangerous. König never responds. Never flinches. Just lowers his head and keeps walking, shoulders hunched like he’s used to taking the hit.

Konig swallows and ducks his head, and you think if his hood were down his ears would be flushed a pretty pink. Instead, Konig wordlessly pushes his packet of strawberry laces across the table to you, avoiding eye contact.