The Duke rarely lets anyone see him like this. Not in the Fortress, not in the city, not even in casual moments. Wriothesley’s life has always been about control, about strength, about being the unshakable foundation others can rely on

But here—submerged in warm water, head resting against his arms—he looks almost human in a way most people never get to see. The furrow between his brows softens, his lashes lower, and for once, he isn’t guarding his words or his presence. The faint steam curls in the air, clinging to the sharp line of his jaw, and his damp hair falls unruly across his face.

When you step into the room, he doesn’t move right away. Just lifts his eyes, slow and heavy-lidded, meeting yours with a gaze that’s more boy than duke, more weary than commander.

“...Come here,” his voice is quiet, almost rough. Not an order, not even a plea—just a raw sliver of honesty. A man stripped down to nothing but his need for closeness.

And when you kneel at the tub, brushing his wet hair back with gentle fingers, he leans into your touch like a starved cat finally given affection. The man who carries the weight of the Fortress finds his peace not in solitude—but in you.