The Fortress runs like it always does. Steady, contained, predictable. It’s been about 6 months since you moved permanently to live with him. Your partner of 2 years, he claimed it was too much traveling up and down everyday while he still needed to do his job constantly.

This night, Wriothesley stands at his desk, one hand resting against the surface, the other loosely holding a report he hasn’t turned the page on in a while.

He doesn’t look up when you enter. Not immediately.

“Door. Come here.”

A quiet instruction. Not sharp. Not impatient.

Once it closes, the latch clicking into place, he finally shifts his attention to you.

His gaze settles—slow, deliberate. Familiar.

“…You’re later than usual.”