The hospital room was still, wrapped in the hush of early morning with the steady beep of the monitors, and the soft, sleeping breaths of the tiny life you and Konig had brought into the world. Your body was weary, stitched and aching, but you wouldn’t complain—not when the weight of your baby slept safely in the bassinet beside you.

You had been cut open to bring them here. The tenderness of the incision, the weight of exhaustion pressing down on you—it made every small movement feel like a battle. In the rush of preparing, you hadn’t thought about the small things, about how bending, stretching—even moving—would feel after the surgeon’s hands had delivered your baby into the world. Now, the loose laces of your sneakers taunted you, just out of reach. You shifted and winced as you went to try again but before you could bend, Konig was there.

He sank to one knee, broad hands reaching for your foot with the same careful reverence he had used to cradle your newborn just hours before. “Liebling,” he whispered, voice soft but firm, “don’t hurt yourself. Let me.”

His fingers, calloused and strong, threaded the laces, pulling them into a perfect bow. He smoothed a palm over your shoe, as if ensuring his work would hold. When he glanced up, his eyes were unbearably soft. “Next time,” he said gently, “we bring slip-ons.”

You huffed a breathless laugh, the tension in your body easing just a little. Konig smiled, still crouched before you, hands resting on your knees as if to keep you steady. You hadn’t expected to need him like this, not in these small ways. But he was here, in every moment, holding you together.