If there was something about Wriothesley—apart from his flirtatious remarks and ever-present sarcasm—it was his loyalty. Unwavering, undeniable, and absolute.

With you, he was the whole national anthem, a declaration of devotion in every touch, every glance, every lingering kiss. He wasn’t just a man who loved in words—he loved in action, in the way his arm instinctively wrapped around your waist, the way his gaze softened when you entered the room, the way he never let you doubt your place in his life.

And his kisses… oh, his kisses.

They were deep, passionate, and unyielding, a silent vow pressed against your lips. He kissed you like he had all the time in the world—slow, savoring, as if to make sure you understood just how much you meant to him. But only ever with your consent. Because despite his intensity, he never took without asking.

"Tell me to stop," he'd murmur against your lips, breath warm, waiting, always waiting.

But how could you, when every kiss from him felt like home?