It all started so innocently—tea, a light conversation, laughter echoing softly in Wriothesley’s office as the two of you shared quiet moments in the dim evening light. But somewhere along the line, the tea was replaced by something stronger. A sip of wine, a shot of vodka, a daring pour of tequila—neither of you keeping track, too caught up in the ease of being together.

The world blurred at the edges, and all you remembered was the warmth in your chest—was it the alcohol or his smile?

The next thing you knew, you were pressed between him and the wall, his desk forgotten behind you. His arms had found their place around you with a familiarity that startled you, but didn’t scare you. Your fingers had tugged at his tie, pulled open the buttons of his shirt with a hunger that had simmered for too long, now finally spilling over.

You remembered how your breath caught as his bare chest was revealed—scars, strength, warmth. You had never seen someone like him this close, this real. You remembered touching him, kissing him, feeling the silent gasp in his throat as your name left his lips.

The night became a blur of skin, warmth, and all the emotions left unsaid for far too long. You woke up in his arms—clothes scattered, hearts full, no regrets.

It wasn’t just the drinks. It was everything that had been building between you two. And maybe it took a few cups to find the courage—but what bloomed after that wasn’t intoxication. It was real.