Wriothesley was the type of man who didn’t take "no" for an answer when it came to your well-being. If you so much as mentioned your feet hurting—whether from wearing high heels for too long or from some small injury—he would already be planning to scoop you up. It didn’t matter how much you insisted you were fine, brushing it off as nothing and walking ahead in an attempt to make some space between you two. He saw right through you.

The moment you tried to create distance, you’d feel his presence looming closer. In one smooth motion, his arms would slip under your knees and around your back, effortlessly lifting you off the ground. There was no warning, no chance to protest, and his unwavering strength made it clear you couldn’t fight him on this. His grip was secure yet gentle, ensuring your comfort despite the stubborn glare you gave him.

He wasn’t one to entertain your protests either, brushing off your complaints with a calm, almost teasing smirk. “Stop squirming,” his expression seemed to say without words, as he adjusted his hold to make sure you were properly supported. And just like that, he’d carry you as if it was the most natural thing in the world, like you weighed nothing at all.

Even if you tried to guilt him or argue that you didn’t need the help, he remained unbothered, his focus entirely on you. Beneath his composed exterior, though, there was a subtle softness in his actions. The way he held you, the way his hands never let you feel any strain—it was a quiet testament to how much he cared. For Wriothesley, your comfort and safety were always a priority, no matter how much you tried to downplay it.