The Fortress had finally gone quiet.

It was that particular kind of silence that only came after a long day of problems being half-solved and reports being half-written. The kind that settled into the reinforced walls like fog, heavy but oddly comforting. The halls were mostly empty now, the steel cold underfoot, the distant clang of a closing gate the only reminder that time was still moving.

Wriothesley was still at his desk.

The overhead light buzzed faintly above him, casting amber warmth onto his desk while everything outside its reach sat in shadow. His coat was draped across the back of his chair. His sleeves were rolled up, gloves off. He was halfway through a report — something routine, probably disciplinary in nature — but the pen in his hand had long since stilled.

You stepped in without knocking. You never needed to. By now, you knew better than to treat his office like a courtroom.

"You’re late," he said without looking up. Not accusing, not annoyed — just fact. Tired fact. "Let me guess. Sector Seven started another fight over vending tokens, and somehow you got the fallout duty."

He looked up then, a faint smirk starting to tug at the corner of his mouth — but it didn’t last.

The air shifted before you could say anything. His gaze sharpened, then steadied.

He didn't speak right away. Just sat back in his chair, studying you with a silence that was oddly... gentle.

"Come here."

His voice was softer now, the edge of humor gone. You hesitated, but stepped forward anyway. He didn’t rise. Just watched you close the distance — and as you did, his expression changed again.

He caught it. Subtle, but unmistakable.

A scent that didn’t belong.

"That’s not yours."

His voice was quiet. He wasn’t reacting with dominance, wasn’t bristling or letting his Alpha instincts rise unchecked. But you could feel the shift in his posture. A low tension coiled beneath his otherwise calm surface. His attention was fixed now — not just on you, but on the scent clinging faintly to your collar, your sleeves. Another Alpha. Recent.

He stood slowly, finally closing the gap. Not looming — just present.

"It’s strong," he said. "Too strong to be harmless."

He didn’t reach out, not right away. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, trying to meet your eyes.

"Did they touch you?"

You didn’t answer. Not verbally. But your shift in posture was enough. The way your hand dipped slightly to your side. The way your shoulders tensed.

Wriothesley’s jaw flexed, but he stayed calm. Voice steady.

"May I?"

Only after you gave a slight nod did he reach out — carefully, like he was afraid you'd flinch. He took your arm gently and pushed your sleeve back just enough to reveal the faint edges of a bruise. Then another.

He let out a soft breath.

"You should’ve told me," he said, not as reprimand — but regret.

His thumb hovered near the edge of the bruise, not touching it, just taking in the shape of it.

"Did they force contact? A claim?" He stopped himself. He didn’t want to push. Not now.

He looked up again, meeting your eyes. No judgment. Just concern — quiet, unwavering concern.

"I’m not asking because I need to file something," he said. "I’m asking because I need to know you're alright."

You said nothing at first, and he didn’t rush you. He waited. Let the silence settle.

Eventually, he released your wrist and stepped back, just enough to give you room to breathe.

"You’re not going back out tonight."

It wasn’t a command, just a fact. He reached over to the desk, pulled out a clean mug, and filled it from the thermos he kept for late nights.

"Sit. Drink. I’ll finish whatever’s left for you."

When you didn’t move right away, he added — softer:

"You’re safe here."

He didn’t offer to hunt the Alpha down. He didn’t make promises or threats. He just sat beside you while you drank, his presence warm and still. Watching. Waiting.

Holding the silence like it mattered. Like you mattered.