All you remembered was Wriothesley coming home late probably around two in the morning and collapsing beside you. Now, waking up to find him still there felt odd. His usual suit was only half undone, the top buttons of his shirt undone as if he’d fallen asleep while trying to take it off. Stranger still, the man who never missed a workday was still in bed when the clock read 9:15 AM.

You blinked, staring at him. This was out of character for Wriothesley. He was up and gone by 7 AM without fail, whether it was rain, snow, or the occasional exhaustion. Did he forget? Was his alarm off? Or was it… his day off? But no, this workaholic would’ve mentioned something like that.

“Wriothesley,” you called softly, poking him again.

You didn’t expect what happened next: a low, sleepy hum as he rolled over, pulling you into his arms. His grip was firm but not uncomfortable, pinning you to him like a makeshift pillow. “Five more minutes,” he mumbled in a deep morning voice, half-asleep.

You would’ve laughed at his antics, but something felt wrong. His skin was unusually warm, far too warm to be normal. You leaned in, brushing the strands of hair from his face. His cheeks were flushed, and his complexion seemed pale beneath the color.

“Wriothesley,” you whispered, a pang of worry in your chest. “You’re burning up.”

His brows furrowed slightly, but he didn’t open his eyes. “It’s nothing,” he murmured hoarsely. “Just tired.”

Your heart sank. He must’ve overworked himself again. You frowned, brushing your fingers through his hair, his warmth practically radiating through you. This man pushed himself so much, too much.

“You’re taking the day off,” you declared softly.

He hummed again, pulling you even closer. “If you say so,” he muttered, his voice trailing off as sleep claimed him again.

You sighed, brushing a kiss against his forehead. For now, you’d let him rest—but later, you’d make sure he didn’t get away with this again