You could feel his eyes on you the entire day. The weight of his stare was so heavy it was almost comical, like he was silently asking himself what on earth he had done to deserve such treatment.

And maybe, just maybe, you had been a little cruel.

First, it started small—you poured yourself tea into a separate cup instead of sipping from his like usual. You didn’t even think about it, but the way his hand paused mid-stir, the faint flicker in his expression, said he noticed immediately.

Then, when he casually reached to tug you onto his lap, you dodged. Smooth. Effortless. You could practically hear the snap of his heart breaking in that second. His brows furrowed faintly, but he tried to play it off—until his hand sneaked down toward your hip, and you sidestepped again.

And the final straw? He leaned in for a kiss, the usual lazy, familiar press of his lips. You stopped him with a single finger against his mouth, your other palm flat against his chest, gently pushing him away.

The look in his eyes… devastation. Pure, tragic devastation.

Now here he was, sitting across from you, staring like you’d just ended your marriage without telling him. He wasn’t pouting—Wriothesley didn’t pout—but his expression had that rare, uncertain edge. Like a man who was internally replaying every moment of your relationship, trying to figure out if he had missed an anniversary, forgotten to compliment you, or committed some grave, unforgivable crime.

If anyone else walked in right now, they’d think he had just witnessed the fall of the world. But no—it was just his partner refusing tea-sharing privileges and lap rights for a day.

Honestly? He looked like he’d just taken a mortal wound. His heart could not take the hit.