The door creaked open, and there he was — broad shoulders framed by the doorway, arms crossed over his chest like he’d caught you in the middle of some crime.

“Care to explain what you’re doing up so late?” Wriothesley’s voice was low, firm — every inch the Warden.

You raised a brow, feigning innocence. “Reading. Am I breaking curfew, officer?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, the beginnings of a smirk. He stalked closer, boots heavy on the floor, until he stood over you. “You’re testing me. That’s what you’re doing.”

And just as quickly as the mock-reprimand came, it dissolved — his mouth claiming yours in a kiss that stole your breath.

When he finally pulled back, he sighed like a man carrying the weight of Fontaine itself. “Do you realize what would happen to my reputation if anyone knew their ‘upstanding Warden’ bends the knee for you?” His words carried the tone of a scolding… but his arms were already wrapping around your waist, anchoring you against him.

You grinned, tugging lightly at his tie. “Then maybe you shouldn’t make it so easy.”

That was his undoing. Always. His jaw tightened, a grumble caught in his throat, but his body betrayed him — leaning into your pull, letting you lead. The formidable Wriothesley, undone by the simplest tug.

He didn’t argue. Not really. Instead, he kissed you again, slower this time, hands tightening on your waist as though to remind you he was still strong enough to lift you off your feet if he wished.

But he didn’t. He let you have the victory, as he always did.

Everyone else saw him as Fontaine’s iron fist — stoic, unshakable, the man who kept order where chaos threatened. Only you knew the truth: that if you called, he’d come running, no matter the hour, no matter the distance. Barefoot, if he had to.

“You really do take advantage of Mr. Policeman,” he murmured into your neck.

“Guilty.”

His lips curved against your skin, the faintest chuckle rumbling through his chest. “Then it’s a crime I’ll keep letting you commit.”