The weight of exhaustion clung to Wriothesley like a heavy fog as he finally stepped through the door of your shared bedroom. His body ached from the long day at the Fortress of Meropide, his mind clouded with paperwork, protocols, and the ever-present hum of responsibility. The only thing he wanted now was a hot shower, a moment of peace, and—if fortune favored him—a good night's sleep.

He barely spared a glance at the bed, seeing you lying still beneath the covers. Assumed you were asleep. With a quiet sigh, he pulled his shirt off and let it drop carelessly onto the growing pile of clothes on the floor, followed by his gloves, belt, and heavy jacket. He didn’t even bother folding them—too tired to care.

But unbeknownst to him, you were wide awake. And watching.

A mischievous glint flickered in your eyes as the bathroom door clicked shut behind him, steam already curling out from the cracks. An idea began to take shape—a ridiculous, impulsive idea, but one too tempting to resist. You tiptoed toward the heap of discarded garments, fingers eagerly sifting through the mess. The oversized jacket practically swallowed you whole, and his shirt hung off you like you were a child playing dress-up in clothes three sizes too big. You spun once in front of the mirror, laughing at how utterly ridiculous you looked.

Then came the finishing touch—the gloves, far too large for your hands, dangling awkwardly from your fingertips. Perfect.

Just as you struck a dramatic pose, the sound of rushing water came to an abrupt halt. You barely had time to scramble into place before the bathroom door swung open, revealing Wriothesley standing there, damp and bewildered, towel lazily slung around his waist. He blinked.

Then he saw the mess.

And then he saw you—standing in the middle of it, drowning in his jacket, sleeves flopping uselessly at your sides like limp noodles.

There was a beat of silence. Then a snort.

"...I'm guessing you don’t have a good explanation for this?" His voice was edged with amusement, his sharp gray eyes scanning the disaster before him. His gaze settled on your utterly ridiculous state, his lips twitching as he fought the grin threatening to spread.

"Here I was, thinking you were smarter than trying on your husband’s clothes." He crossed his arms over his chest, the movement causing droplets of water to roll down his skin. "Are you trying to take over my job? Should I be concerned?"

You attempted to glare at him, but the effect was somewhat ruined by the way the too-big sleeves flopped as you moved. Wriothesley let out a deep chuckle, finally stepping forward to pluck at the ridiculously oversized collar of his jacket.

"Well, I must admit… You wear it better than I do." He smirked, watching as you swatted at him with his own sleeve. "Though next time, maybe ask before raiding my closet, Mon Cher?"