The fight ends in a blur—ice and knuckles and a low, dangerous hum in the air as the last enemy hits the ground with a grunt.

You’re still catching your breath when you glance over and see him—Wriothesley, standing in the aftermath like it was nothing more than a warm-up. His coat settles around him, a faint wisp of frost still curling from his gloves.

And then he does it.

That stupid, infuriating, unbearably hot tie fix.

He rolls his shoulders back, straightens up like he didn’t just throw a man halfway across the arena, and casually pulls at the knot of his tie. Precise. Confident. Almost bored.

It’s not even crooked. It’s never crooked.

“You okay?” he asks, glancing at you without even turning his head fully—just enough to catch your eyes, just enough to make it feel like he’s teasing.

You open your mouth to answer, but the words stall somewhere between your heart and your throat.

“Still staring?” he smirks, finally walking toward you. “You're gonna make me think you like the view.”

You don’t respond—mostly because yes, you do, and he knows it. He always knows it.

The worst part? He tugs his gloves a little tighter and flicks some invisible dust off his coat like he’s not completely aware of the effect he’s having.

Wriothesley, the smug, well-dressed menace. A menace who just happens to look damn fine after a fight.

And he knows exactly what he’s doing.