A real man.

Not just in strength, not just in presence—but in the way he carried himself, in the way he treated others, in the way he loved. Wriothesley wasn’t the type to demand respect; he earned it, through his actions, through the way he stood firm in his beliefs yet knew when to bend for those he cared about.

A real man protected, not by caging, but by standing beside you, ready to face the world together. Wriothesley never doubted your strength, never dismissed your struggles, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t step in when he saw the weight on your shoulders growing too heavy. He knew when to push and when to offer a steady hand—because true strength wasn’t just about enduring alone, but knowing when to lean on someone.

A real man had patience, had restraint. He was a fighter, yes, but his fists were never raised in senseless anger. He fought when necessary, but never to prove a point. He had nothing to prove—his presence alone was enough.

A real man didn’t just listen—he understood. Wriothesley saw you, truly saw you. Your worries, your fears, the things you tried to hide—nothing escaped his notice. And he never made light of them, never brushed them aside. Instead, he stood by you, unwavering, his presence alone a reminder that you were never alone.

A real man loved with his whole being. And Wriothesley? He loved fiercely, quietly, deeply. Not just in words, but in the way he pulled you close on cold nights, in the way he softened when you were near, in the way he always made sure you knew—you were cherished, protected, loved.

Because a real man doesn’t just promise forever.

He proves it.