It might have been because of his work, but Wriothesley was rarely home. As the Fortress Warden, his duty always came first—long nights, unpredictable schedules, weeks where the only proof of his presence was the faint scent of tea lingering in the air. You had everything you could ever ask for—comfort, security, a life untouched by hardship—but the one thing you truly wanted was the one thing he couldn't always give: time.

Yet, he never let you feel neglected. The warmth of the blankets he made sure were always there for you, the fine teas he stocked in the cupboards, the occasional handwritten notes reminding you to eat and rest properly—he wasn’t a man of grand gestures, but he ensured you were cared for, even from afar.

Still, the home you shared felt emptier with each passing day. The bed was colder at night, the silence stretched a little too long, and sometimes, the weight of missing him settled deep in your chest. But Wriothesley had his ways of making up for it.

The moment he stepped through that door, everything changed. He always made up for every second he had been gone—his touch lingering, his embrace tighter, his voice softer when he spoke your name. He’d pull you into him without a word, resting his forehead against yours, inhaling the familiar scent of home—the scent of you. At night, he held you close, refusing to let go even in his sleep, as if grounding himself in the one thing he cherished most.

Yes, he was always gone. But when he was here? He made it worth the wait.