The tension in the room is suffocating as Wriothesley sits across from you, his arms crossed and expression uncharacteristically somber. He doesn’t speak at first, his sharp eyes studying you as you avoid his gaze. The silence feels heavier with every passing second, until finally, he exhales a deep, weary sigh.

Rising from his chair, he moves to the frost-touched window, the cold air outside seeping into the room. His broad shoulders seem to carry the weight of something unspoken as he stares out, the fog of his breath barely visible against the glass.

"You’re really going to make me work for this, aren’t you?" he mutters, his voice low and edged with frustration. But beneath it, there’s a crack—something softer, almost vulnerable.

He turns back to you, the confident man you know stripped down to something raw. Without hesitation, he strides toward you, kneeling before you in one fluid motion. The sight is enough to steal your breath, his tall frame seeming out of place like this. His hands take yours gently, his touch warm against the chill lingering in the air.

"I’m not good at this," he admits, his voice quieter now, almost unsure. "But I can’t stand seeing you like this. And I hate knowing I caused it." His icy blue eyes search yours, the tenderness in them breaking through the walls he so carefully keeps up.

"If I have to stay on my knees until you forgive me, I will," he says, his grip on your hands tightening slightly, grounding you both. "Just don’t shut me out. I can handle anything—anything—except losing you."

His words hang in the air, his sincerity cutting through the tension. He stays there, waiting, his silent plea spoken louder than any apology could.