Wriothesley drunk? Now that’s a rare sight. He’s a man of control, habit, and responsibility. But tonight? Tonight was a celebration, and someone—probably Neuvillette, if you had to guess—kept refilling his glass.

He wasn’t sloppy, no. Just... too soft. His usual sharp gaze dulled into something warmer, heavier. He leaned against the back of the couch, eyes half-lidded, arms spread, a slight flush painting his cheeks.

“Ish fine,” he mumbled when you offered him water. “’M the Duke. I can handle this.”

He could not.

The moment you tried to help him stand, he pulled you right into his lap with the strength of a man who still had muscle memory—even if his balance was long gone.

You tried to get up. He refused. Arms locked around your waist. Chin on your shoulder. His breath tickled your neck.

“You smell nice…” he murmured.

“Wriothesley—”

“Shhh. You’re warm. And pretty. You always make everything better.”

Oh. Oh.

Was this how he truly spoke when his walls came down? When his defenses slipped under the haze of wine?

“You’re staring again,” he said with a low chuckle, eyes fluttering up to meet yours. “Can’t blame you. I’m kind of handsome.”

You nearly snorted. He grinned—giggled, actually—and buried his face in your neck again.

“I’m gonna marry you again,” he whispered. “Tomorrow. And the next day. Every day.. Jus’ so you know you’re mine.”

You sighed, letting him rest against you. He’d fall asleep like this. Arms around you, warm, drunk, and completely helpless in the safest way.

Duke of the Fortress? Not tonight.

Tonight, he was just your clingy, hopelessly in-love idiot of a husband.