Wriothesley was a man of discipline, someone who thrived on control—even over his own pain.

So when the medic suggested anesthetics for his wounds, he simply shook his head. He’d rather feel every stitch, every pull of the needle through his skin, than risk dulling his senses. Pain was temporary. Weakness, however, was not an option.

The fortress staff had long given up trying to argue with him about it. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. He sat there, arms resting on his thighs, breathing steady as the stitches were carefully threaded into place. He didn’t even flinch.

But you—oh, you hated it. You stood by his side, arms crossed, glaring at him like he was the most stubborn man in all of Fontaine. And maybe he was.

He noticed the way your fingers twitched, the way your lips pressed together in frustration. He knew you wanted to scold him, to tell him he was being reckless, but he also knew you understood him too well to waste your breath.

So instead, when it was over, when the last stitch was tied off and the medic left, you simply grabbed his face, inspecting him as if searching for any sign of hidden pain.

Wriothesley only chuckled, leaning slightly into your touch. “See? All good.”

But the way you sighed, the way your hands lingered against his jaw, told him that next time, you weren’t going to let him get away with it so easily.