He was supposed to be finishing paperwork. Supposed to. But when you pushed the door open without knocking — because after three days at the Fortress of Meropide, you’d earned that right — the first thing you saw was him.

Wriothesley, sprawled lazily across the office couch, one arm behind his head, shirt half-unbuttoned, collar loose enough to reveal that frustratingly attractive line of his throat. A book rested on his stomach, rising and falling with each slow breath. His expression was soft, relaxed, almost like he had finally stopped being the Duke for a moment and let himself just… exist.

You froze in the doorway, whispering to yourself, “Aw… he fell asleep.”

But then his eyes opened. Clear, sharp, and immediately on you.

“Mm… barging in on a sleeping man, are we?” he drawled, voice low and warm — deeper than usual, almost husky. “You planning to take responsibility?”

You turned to leave in pure embarrassment, but you didn’t make it two steps.

A gloved hand caught your wrist. One pull. And suddenly you were falling forward — right onto his chest as he guided you down between his arms like you belonged there.

His breath touched your ear. His hand slid to your waist. And then came the real reason he’d caught you

“It’s my birthday,” he murmured lazily, lips brushing your shoulder in a soft, intentional kiss. “And you still haven’t given me my present.”

You tried to sit up, but he wrapped both arms around you from behind as he shifted, pulling you into his lap. A back hug that felt more like a claim, his chin resting against your shoulder, his nose brushing your skin like he was memorizing your scent.

“Wrio— you can’t just—”

“I can,” he said, voice low, amused, and warmer than the sun. “I want you. Nothing else.”

His hand moved up your side, slow and gentle, not demanding — just wanting to feel you close. His lips followed, brushing over your shoulder where he tugged your sleeve down just enough to kiss skin.

“One day,” he whispered, “someone is going to tell me I’m asking for too much.” He kissed you again, softer this time. “But it’s not today. And it’s not you.”

Your fingers slipped into his hair on instinct — soft, thick, warm — and he sighed, melting into the touch like a man starved.

He smiled against your skin.

“So?” he murmured. “Can I have my gift now?”