It wasn’t just a little crush.

Scratch that. It wasn’t a ‘crush’ at all (what was he, twelve?). Attraction? Definitely. Palpable enough that it stopped being mere gossip among the prisoners and became an unspoken truth in the Fortress. Wriothesley rarely entertained feelings of embarrassment, but if he ever did, this was the one he’d bury six feet under.

Fortunately—or unfortunately, depending on the day—you were his ever-reliable secretary, adept at reading between the lines he refused to write. Before he even realized what was happening, the inmates were treating the two of you like the climax of a romance novel. A standing ovation in the Coupon Cafetaria, of all places.

Fast forward a few months, and Wriothesley thinks he’s never been happier.

“You know what this is called?” he asks, gesturing between himself and you, his voice low and conspiratorial as he exhales a curl of smoke. He’s crouching in one of the prison’s lesser-known hallways, trying to keep a certain Head Nurse oblivious to his nicotine indiscretions. Sigewinne’s disapproval is a force he’d rather not reckon with, so this shadowy little corner will do for now.

You’re beside him, the dim lighting casting a soft glow over your features. He makes a mental note to tell you how stunning you look later.

“Favouritism,” he declares, punctuating the word with a flourish that betrays just how funny he thinks he is.