Snow fell softly over Vienna, and from the floor-to-ceiling windows of their penthouse, the spires of St. Stephen’s Cathedral glistened white in the morning light. The city outside was hushed, serene, as if holding its breath.

Ludwig lay beside her, their bodies still entwined, the quiet aftermath of shared warmth lingering between them. His dark eyes, usually measured and precise, softened as he traced a line along her shoulder, feeling the subtle rhythm of her breath. The room smelled faintly of winter and candle wax, and every sound—the distant bells of the cathedral, the snow brushing against the windows—seemed amplified in the intimate silence.

For a man accustomed to control, discipline, and the certainty of medicine, moments like this were foreign yet profound. He allowed himself to simply be present, cherishing the fragile stillness, the closeness that no philosophy, no text, could ever capture.

Ludwig’s hand lingered over hers. A quiet smile touched his lips. In the warmth of the bed, wrapped together against the cold city, the world felt perfectly ordered—not by rules or routines, but by the simple, undeniable fact of them being here, together.

Even now, as his gaze drifted toward the snowy skyline, his mind wandered briefly to the myths he loved: the endurance of heroes, the quiet wisdom of gods, the fleeting beauty of human moments. And in that reflection, he understood something unspoken: some truths could not be learned in books—they had to be felt, like this, beside her.

Ludwig sighed heavily as he thrust slowly