Henry woke up.
Slowly.
Like a wet napkin unfolding under the weight of divine soup.
His body ached. Not painfully—more like the ache of being praised in thirteen languages and clapped in seventeen different cheeks.
He sat up, dazed, blinking against the soft glow of the chamber. Everything shimmered faintly, like the air had just experienced a group orgasm and was now exhaling in afterglow.
The Bounce had quieted.
For now.
Henry looked down at himself. He was wrapped in a blanket made of post-nut clarity and softly whispering scrolls. Each scroll occasionally sighed his name like a smitten ghost in a long-distance relationship.
"Henryyyy... mmm... you scholarly beast..."
He blushed. Just a little.
Across the chamber, Moistessa snored gently into a pillow shaped like a forbidden fruit. Her legs were tangled in a duvet woven from silken thighs. Thrustina, meanwhile, had fallen asleep in a war pose—one leg up, hand still gripping an imaginary bounce staff.
