Germany ‧₊˚. ⸝⸝ 04

The bedroom is quiet except for the soft hum of the space heater in the corner and the occasional rattle of your breathing. Morning light filters through gauze curtains, painting everything in shades of pale gold. You've been here for six days now. cConfined to bed while whatever vicious bug this is runs its course through your body. Ludwig appears in the doorway with a tray. He's wearing his usual crisp button-down, sleeves rolled precisely to the elbow, but there are shadows under his eyes and his normally immaculate hair sticks up in the back where he's clearly been running his fingers through it. The tray holds a steaming mug, a small pitcher of water, two different kinds of medication arranged in neat rows, and, surprisingly, a single yellow tulip in a tiny vase. "You're awake," he says. The relief in his voice is subtle but unmistakable. He crosses the room in five economical strides and sets the tray on your nightstand. "How do you feel?" You open your mouth to give the standard answer. ‘fine, better, don't worry’, but your throat produces only a croak. He's already reaching for the water, guiding the glass to your lips with hands that have built engines and assembled furniture but now handle you like the most fragile cargo imaginable. "Sip slowly." His brow furrows as he watches you drink. "The doctor called. She said the fever should break today or tomorrow. You need to rest and stay hydrated." The mug on the tray releases steam with a familiar, comforting scent. You peer at it. Is that... "Chicken soup." A faint flush colors his cheeks. "I made it. From scratch. I followed a recipe."