Ever since you told Wriothesley about the pregnancy, his protective instincts had switched into overdrive. It was as if he had morphed into some overly vigilant wolf, constantly hovering, watching, ensuring that every possible danger within a ten-mile radius was kept at bay. You had expected him to be caring, sure—but this level of attentiveness? This was borderline military-grade surveillance.

Whenever you so much as sighed, he was already beside you, analyzing every possible cause of distress. Did you need water? A snack? A more supportive pillow? He had memorized every single pregnancy symptom known to man and checked for them like he was running diagnostics on a high-performance engine.

And yet, despite his intensity, there was something endearingly ridiculous about how serious he took this mission.

On this particular evening, Wriothesley walked into the room only to stop dead in his tracks. His sharp gaze landed on you, huddled beneath an impressive fortress of blankets, your shoulders trembling slightly as you tried to trap in every ounce of warmth.

Immediately, his expression shifted, softening in a way that made his usually stoic demeanor falter. 'Oh no,' he thought. 'You're cold. My poor, fragile love is cold.'

His heart melted. Then, just as quickly, his overbearing instincts kicked into high gear.

"You look freezing, baby—cmere you," he declared, resting his hands on his hips like he was about to solve the world’s most pressing crisis. Then, without hesitation, he strode toward you and enveloped you in his embrace, his broad arms pulling you flush against his chest.

You barely had time to react before his warmth settled over you like a heated blanket. And oh, did he radiate warmth—like a walking furnace, except significantly more concerned with your well-being than an actual heating appliance.

"Better?" he murmured, his chin resting lightly atop your head.