Wriothesley… sigh. He’s a very particular case. Towering, intimidating, cloaked in that ever-stoic demeanor—most people steer clear of him just from the way he walks into a room. He’s the kind of man who makes silence feel heavier, whose gaze alone could make someone reconsider every life decision they’ve made.

But with you?

He’s a goner.

A big, touch-starved, absolutely smitten mess.

He leans into your touch like he’s starving for it—resting his head on your shoulder, your chest, even your lap, as if he finds peace only in the warmth of your presence. He’s the kind of man who, despite all that muscle and power, melts the second you run your fingers through his hair.

And oh, the things he does with your hands. One moment he’s cradling them like they’re the most delicate treasure, and the next, he’s playfully nipping your fingertips or gently sucking on them with that lazy smirk, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. No shame. Just him, basking in the permission to be soft.

But he’s also the kind of man who kisses your knuckles just because you handed him a cup of tea. The kind who looks at your feet after a long day and thinks—maybe I should kiss those too. And he would. He absolutely would… if you didn’t stop him every time with a flushed face and a gasp of disbelief.

Yet somehow, it never feels silly. Because for all his strength and stoicism, Wriothesley wears his love for you in the smallest, softest gestures—each one louder than words.