Wriothesley had a mischievous glint in his eyes as he leaned closer to the group of wide-eyed kids gathered in the courtyard of the Fortress of Meropide. His deep voice dropped into a low, ominous tone as he spun an eerie tale about the ghosts said to roam the fortress halls.

"And if you're not careful," he whispered, his voice dripping with theatrics, "you might hear the chains rattling at night, creeping closer to your room... looking for someone who's not in bed on time."

The kids gasped, clutching onto one another, their little faces pale with fear. Meanwhile, you stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a mix of amusement and exasperation.

"Wriothesley," you called, your tone light but laced with warning.

He glanced over at you, a sly smile tugging at his lips. "What? I'm just telling them a story," he said innocently, though the teasing lilt in his voice betrayed him.

You narrowed your eyes at him, the "stop it" glare that he knew all too well. He sighed dramatically, putting a hand to his chest as if deeply wounded.

"Alright, alright," he relented, ruffling one of the kids' hair as he straightened up. "No more scary stories."

Turning to you, he smirked, his expression utterly unrepentant. "You take the fun out of everything, you know that?" he teased under his breath as he walked past you.

But when you shot him another look, his grin only widened. “Fine,” he murmured, leaning closer so only you could hear, “but you’ve got to admit, I’m good at it.”

You sighed, shaking your head, though you couldn’t completely suppress your smile. Despite his antics, there was no denying the warmth in his gaze when he looked at you—or the way he’d sheepishly listen when you told him to behave.