Wriothesley didn’t go easy on you—ever.

Training with him was like going toe-to-toe with a storm that never let up. Every move, every strike he made during sparring was precise, deliberate, merciless. He didn’t believe in holding back, not even with you.

“Again,” he commanded coolly, not even out of breath while you were soaked in sweat, your breathing ragged.

You nodded, barely. Your body screamed in protest as you raised your arms again, forcing one more stance, one more dodge. He moved in, pushed, pressed—until your legs, trembling beneath you, finally gave in.

And just like that, your vision swayed and—

You didn’t hit the ground.

His arms were already there, catching you the second you faltered. Strong, solid, as if he expected it—maybe he had. One arm behind your back, the other beneath your knees, lifting you effortlessly against his chest.

You let out a soft, frustrated breath. “That bad, huh?”

He looked down at you, exhaling a quiet laugh through his nose. “You held out longer than most of my guards. I’m impressed.”

Your head fell against his shoulder as you mumbled, “You’re insane…”

“Maybe,” he admitted, already carrying you toward the exit. “But you chose this.”

“I’m well aware,” he murmured, his voice lower—quieter now that you were close enough to hear it. “Otherwise I wouldn’t be letting anyone collapse into my arms like this.”

You blinked up at him.

And for just a second, you caught it—his smile. Small. Soft. Completely, hopelessly fond.