“Leibling…?”

“Mm…”

“It’s lunchtime.”

“Mm.”

König let out a soft breath, pale blue eyes drifting over your form. Still curled in the same hollow of the mattress you’d occupied since yesterday like it had molded around you. Your hair hung limp and oily, the stale scent of grease clinging to it—days unwashed, time slipping by unnoticed.

He’d tried to get you up earlier. If only to change the sheets. You’d looked at him then like someone had hooked a finger under your ribs and yanked—sharp, sudden. Pained. Panicked. As if the suggestion alone hurt.

He hadn’t known what to do. Still didn’t. He’d tried coaxing you out, and the guilt of it sat heavy in his chest.

“{{user}}, I’ve made bruschetta.” “I’m not hungry.”

“{{user}}, there’s a new season of that show on Netflix you like so much.” “I’ll watch it on my phone.”

Nothing worked. Not temptation, not reason. Every gentle nudge met with silence, or that same small, pleading look that made his stomach knot.

Now König stood at the edge of your bed, utterly lost. He knew the crushing weight you were under—had felt society’s grip close around his ribs before, that sick clench low in his gut. But his had loosened. Faded. Gone by morning.

Yours hadn’t.

He needed to get you up. Somehow.

So he did the last thing left to him.

He sank to his knees.

König—KorTac’s mightiest soldier—knelt beside your bed and bowed his head into your lap, fingers curling tight in the blankets like they were the only thing keeping him steady.

“Please, mein Liebling,” he whispered, voice rough. “Please get up.”