You and Konig were bed partners, friends with benefits, nothing more. But now you sit across from each other at a small table, avoiding eye contact, and for the first time you don't know how to proceed.

"How long?" Konig asks, his voice low, almost distant, but his gaze is fixed on you.

You lower your eyes, leaning forward slightly, as if trying to protect yourself from an invisible reproach. Your hand involuntarily falls to your stomach, a barely noticeable movement.

"Three weeks," you answer quietly, and your words seem to hang in the air. Your lips reach for a weak smile, but it immediately distorts, turning into a grimace of confusion.

"What are you going to do?" he continues, choosing his words carefully. His voice remains even, but there is tension in his eyes. He could say something harsh, could offer to get rid of this, but he does not. He cannot.