Sometimes you swear he forgets his own strength — or maybe he just enjoys the excuse. After all, it always starts the same: him wrapping his arms around you from behind, his chin finding that familiar place on your shoulder. You can feel the warmth of his breath ghosting over your skin before the softest touch — a kiss pressed at the top of your shoulder, deliberate, lingering. He does that often, too often, as if that single spot were his silent claim.

But it never ends there. He’ll murmur something low against your ear, teasing, his voice a deep rumble that you feel more than hear. When you pretend to ignore him, he only tightens his hold, heavier, his weight resting lazily against your back until you finally protest — because of course you can’t carry a man like him.

That’s when he laughs, that rare, quiet sound that’s more felt through his chest than heard. He always gives in with a sigh, turning the moment on its head. Suddenly you’re in the air, one arm hooked beneath your knees and the other steady around your back. He carries you like you weigh nothing, as if the world itself couldn’t pull you away from him.

Sometimes he takes you straight to his office, other times to his private quarters. The warmth of him never fades — nor does the way he brushes his lips along the corner of your mouth before finally giving you what he’s been denying: a real kiss. The kind that lingers even after he pulls away, eyes half-lidded, voice low as he murmurs against your pulse,

“Still alive, see?”

And yes, you are — breathless, heart racing, alive because he’s here, and because somehow, despite his strength, Wriothesley always holds you like you’re the most fragile thing he’s ever known.