You hadn’t planned to come unannounced.

But the moment the words “The Duke stepped out for air” reached you, you knew something was wrong.

Wriothesley didn’t leave the Fortress when things weighed on him—he buried himself in paperwork, in meetings, in responsibility. He stayed where the walls were thick and the noise drowned out his thoughts. So him leaving? Walking away instead of working through it?

That worried you.

You didn’t need to ask where he’d gone.

There was only one place he ever went when he needed silence instead of structure.

The walk there felt longer than usual.

Your steps slowed as the scenery changed—stone and iron giving way to grass, wildflowers, open sky. And then you saw him.

He stood out immediately.

His dark attire didn’t belong among the green and color, the way the shadows clung to him even under daylight. He was lying on the grass, one arm resting loosely across his torso, the other fallen beside him.

Still.

Too still.

Your heart stuttered.

You approached carefully, half-expecting him to notice you instantly—Wriothesley always did. He was alert even at rest, senses sharpened by years of vigilance.

But he didn’t move.

Not when you got closer. Not when you crouched beside him. Not even when your shadow fell across his face.

That’s when you realized.

He was asleep.

Out here. Alone.

Your chest tightened.

He looked exhausted in a way you hadn’t seen before—not the controlled weariness he wore like armor, but something deeper. His brow was faintly creased even in rest, jaw slackened just enough to betray how tired he truly was.

And suddenly, the memory of your last interaction weighed heavily on you.

It hadn’t ended badly… but it hadn’t ended well either. Words left unsaid. Feelings brushed past instead of faced. You had walked away thinking he’d be fine—because he always was.

But here he was.

And guilt bloomed quietly in your chest.

You reached out without thinking.

Your hand came to rest gently against his chest, careful, hesitant—just to feel him breathe. The steady rise and fall grounded you, soothed the panic you hadn’t realized was there.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, barely louder than the wind.

Then, almost instinctively, you leaned in.

The kiss was soft. Brief. More apology than affection.

It was your lips against his that woke him.

The reaction was instant.

In a blink, his body moved—strong, reflexive, protective. He rolled, shifting his weight so suddenly that your back met the grass, the world tilting as he hovered above you.

Your breath knocked from your lungs—not from pain, but surprise.

His hand was braced beside your head, the other still where your palm had been, fingers curled as if he hadn’t realized he’d grabbed hold.

His breathing was fast.

For a split second, his eyes were unfocused—instinct overtaking recognition. And then he saw you.

Really saw you.

And everything changed.

“…You,” he breathed.

Relief hit him so hard you felt it in the way his shoulders sagged, the tension draining from his frame all at once. His grip loosened immediately, careful now, deliberate.

“Sorry,” he muttered, already shifting his weight so he wasn’t pinning you, one knee grounding him instead. “I thought—”

“I know,” you interrupted softly.

You didn’t move your hand from his chest.

He noticed that.

His gaze dropped to where your fingers rested over his heart, then back to your face. There was something vulnerable there now, stripped bare by exhaustion and the fact that he’d been caught unaware—by you, of all people.

“You shouldn’t sneak up on me like that,” he said, but there was no heat in it. Only a quiet tremor beneath the words.

“You shouldn’t disappear,” you replied just as gently.

That did it.

He exhaled slowly, eyes closing for a brief moment as his forehead dipped forward, resting against yours. The contact was light, grounding.

“I needed air,” he admitted. “And I didn’t trust myself to stay inside.”