The scent of something slightly burnt drifted in before the door creaked open. Wriothesley stood there, tray in hand, a mix of toast, fruit, and determination on display. A smudge of flour dusted his jaw, and his ears were faintly pink.

He set the tray down with care, avoiding your gaze until a quiet chuckle escaped him. “Don’t look at me like that.” He said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m still learning how to be a husband.”