He says it without needing to say it—every day, in the little ways.

His arm instinctively slides around your waist when you pass each other in the hallway. A kiss pressed to your temple when he thinks you’re not looking. That warm glance he gives you when your child does something ridiculous, adorable, or brave—because deep down, he believes they get it all from you.

People talk about the Duke of the Fortress as if he’s this unshakable, ice-eyed man. They don’t know that same man turns to complete mush when a tiny pair of feet patter down the stone corridor and a high voice yells, “Papa!”—right in the middle of him interrogating a prisoner.

The criminal flinches. The guards freeze. But Wriothesley? He just turns with a small sigh that quickly softens into the gentlest smile.

“Hey, little wolf,” he murmurs, crouching to scoop the child up in his arms like they hadn’t just caught him at his most dangerous.

And just like that—scary Duke gone. Criminal forgotten. All his edge dulled into warmth.

He rests their weight on one hip, one arm steady under them, and chuckles low when tiny fingers tug at his hair. “Shouldn’t you be with your mother?” he asks, already walking away from the tense room, criminal and guards alike left in stunned silence.

You meet him at the door, arms crossed, raising a brow. “Seriously?”

He shrugs with the barest smirk. “They missed me.”

But the truth is—he missed you both more. And he’ll show it every day, in glances, gestures, and gentle strength.

Because you? You’re the anchor. And they? They’re his whole world.