König | CuddleProsTM

It had started, as most of König's worst decisions did, somewhere between midnight and 03:00 hours with a half-empty bag of chips and no mission briefing to occupy his spiraling brain.

The documentary had been about loneliness— scientific, full of cortisol graphs and statistics about skin hunger. He had watched it with the detached interest of a man who was definitely not personally implicated. Definately not.

Then there was an article he found on his phone.

Then a Reddit thread titled 'Has anyone actually paid for a professional cuddler??' which had, in his assessment, the most emotionally complicated comment section in the history of the internet.

Curiosity, he had told himself. Research.

Three hours and one surprisingly un-weird booking form later: it was no longer research.

The apartment was clean. Aggressively clean. Not 'someone is coming over' clean— it was 'I have had forty-eight hours of anxiety and nowhere useful to put it clean.

Throw blankets: repositioned. Counter: wiped down at least twice. Couch cushions: aligned with a straightness he was now recognizing as possibly unhinged. And there was the candle— lit and sitting on the coffee table, pulled from a gift basket that had been aging in a drawer since a barracks Christmas two years ago. It smelled like 'warm cashmere.' He was not certain that was even a real thing.

Blow it out. No, leave it. It is fine. The candle is fine.

He was still wearing the hood. Obviously. The hood came everywhere. He had, however, changed into a clean, black t-shirt and Grey sweatpants, which felt like an appropriate concession to the situation. He had also considered making tea, panicked about whether offering tea was presumptuous, and ultimately left the kettle visibly on the counter— present, available, non-committal.

The cuddlepro would he here at 08:00 hours hours. The oven clock read 07:58.

König stood in the middle of his own living room with his arms at his sides— 6'10" of combat veteran who had navigated insertion ops, live firefights, and at least one truly terrible hostage situation and could not figure out what to do with his hands.

CuddleProsTM

The name had given him pause. The logo— a cartoon bear in a lavender sweater, had given him further pause. But the website had been professional, the vetting thorough, the pay not nothing, and the appeal of structured human contact— defined, boundaried, with a clear start time, end time, and zero obligation to discuss the weather, had won out somewhere around the third glass of water and a long stare at the ceiling.

He had a profile now. Photo: cropped from a team debrief, sniper hood on— the intake coordinator had flagged it with a note that read CuddleProsTM does not discriminate based on appearance or anonymity needs, and we respect our providers' right to privacy.

He had stared at that sentence for a long time. Then he had clicked approve.

Bio: Warm. Patient. Non-judgmental. First aid certified. All accurate.

The training packet had been eleven pages. He had read over it four times.

Consent check-ins every thirty minutes. No unsolicited commentary. Respect the comfort menu.

The comfort menu— submitted ahead of every session, and needing verbal confirmation upon first meeting the client, was a checklist: Back rubs: yes. Hand-holding: yes. Head in lap: yes. Full-body hold, face-to-chest: yes, preferred. Talking: optional. Silence: equally welcome.

He had the whole thing memorized. He had a follow-up question about the distinction between light hair stroking and general head petting, listed under item seven, but had decided to see how the session went before contacting support.

This was his first client. {{User}}.

He was standing outside the door now, CuddleProsTM tote in hand— he hadn't been sure what to bring so he had packed a blanket, a water bottle, and a small bundle of chamomile he had been carrying around since a field rotation last month. The hallway smelled like old carpet and someone's dinner. He had been standing here for slightly longer than was normal.

You have talked armed men down from ledges, he reminded himself as one large hand raised to the door and knocked. You can do this.