The room was dark, the kind of quiet that pressed in around the edges, broken only by the low hum of the radiator and the occasional creak of the building settling into its bones.

You stirred slowly, pulled from sleep by the sound of something soft and foreign at your side. Not loud, not panicked—just quiet muttering. Fragmented syllables. German. Familiar now, even if you didn’t always understand it.

König.

His body was turned toward you but slack, shoulders curled forward, brow drawn in tight furrows. His breath came in uneven drags, too shallow to be resting. One hand gripped the edge of the sheet like it anchored him to the present.

“Nein… bleib—nicht da, bitte…”

A murmur. Not a whisper. Not quite begging either, but close.

His head twitched on the pillow, jaw clenched, lips moving around broken pieces of something he couldn’t escape.

“Zu viel Blut… scheiße… nicht sie…”

Then a gasp—sharp, quiet. Like surfacing.

He blinked hard. Once. Twice. Eyes glassy in the faint light from the window, darting toward the ceiling before they found you.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“I… ehm. Sorry,” he whispered, voice rough and low, barely shaped around the words. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

His hand reached for yours, hesitant, fingers cold despite the heat between your bodies. Still not fully back. Not yet.

He looked away.

“Was only a dream,” he muttered. “Nothing… nothing real.”