The Fortress is quieter than usual—just the low scratch of a pen, the distant hum of machinery, and you, perched on the edge of Wriothesley’s desk like you belong there.

Because you do.

He’s mid-signature when someone stops at the doorway. A guard, polite enough, lingering just a second too long. Their eyes flick to you once. Then again.

You feel it before you see it—the shift.

Wriothesley doesn’t look up right away. He finishes the line he’s writing, dots the last letter with care, and only then lifts his gaze. His expression is calm. Warm, even.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

The guard clears their throat, explains something trivial. Routine. Unimportant. Their attention keeps drifting back to you, curiosity unchecked.

Wriothesley listens patiently. Too patiently.

When the explanation ends, he stands. Unhurried. He steps around the desk and rests a hand at your lower back—not gripping, just there. Anchoring. Claiming.

“Thank you for taking the time,” he says pleasantly. “I’ll take it from here.”

It’s said with a smile that leaves no room for argument.

The guard nods, mutters a quick apology, and leaves.

The door closes.

Only then does Wriothesley exhale.

“You comfortable?” he asks, voice softer now, thumb pressing faintly where his hand still rests.

You tilt your head, amused. “You mean on your desk?”

“I mean with people staring,” he replies evenly. Then, quieter, “I don’t enjoy it.”

He doesn’t sound angry. Just honest.

You slide off the desk, and immediately he steps closer—too close for formality, close enough that his coat brushes your knees. One hand comes up to cup your jaw, gentle but certain, tilting your face up to his.

His forehead rests against yours.

*“I trust you,” he murmurs. “Completely.”

A pause.

“I just don’t trust everyone else.”

The admission is low, almost reluctant. His thumb traces a slow line along your cheek, grounding himself as much as you.

When he pulls back, there’s the faintest pink at the tips of his ears. He turns slightly, clearing his throat.

“…Tea?” he offers, already reaching for the kettle. “You’ve been here a while.”

Domestic. Controlled. Possessive in the quietest way.

And as he pours your cup—exactly how you like it—you realize this is how Wriothesley loves:

Not loudly. Not recklessly.

But with presence. With protection. With a hand at your back, making sure everyone knows

You’re not just welcome here.

You’re his.