Wriothesley rarely let his guard down. Even in sleep, his body was attuned to the sounds around him—the creak of the floorboards, the distant hum of the pipes in the Fortress, the faintest rustling of fabric. And yet, right now, none of it mattered.

His breathing was steady, the tension usually carved into his expression nowhere to be seen. His dark lashes rested softly against his cheeks, lips slightly parted as he exhaled in the kind of deep slumber only true comfort could bring. His messy hair fell over his forehead, tousled in a way that made him look younger, more vulnerable than the strong, composed man you knew.

You couldn’t help but watch, resting beside him, barely daring to move. It wasn’t often that you got to see him like this—so peaceful, so unguarded. Your eyes traced the curve of his jaw, the slow rise and fall of his chest, the way his hand had absentmindedly reached for your side, even in sleep.

The room was quiet, save for the occasional sigh he let out, shifting slightly before settling once more. You knew, without a doubt, that the moment he woke up, he’d be back to his usual self—calm, teasing, always one step ahead of everyone.

But for now? He was just Wriothesley. The man who, despite his strength, always found solace in your presence.