Life had taught you early that nothing came without effort. Your father’s absence, your mother’s quiet struggle to keep a roof over your heads, all of it had hardened you into someone who carried their own burdens without complaint. Independence wasn’t pride—it was survival. And survival didn’t leave much room for softness.

That’s the person Wriothesley first encountered at the wedding. He was nothing like the men who slurred their words over too many drinks or lost themselves in the chaos of the celebration. He was composed, almost reserved, yet not distant. When conversation sparked between you, it wasn’t forced. It was quiet, steady—two people with sharp edges recognizing something familiar in each other.

Months passed, and that recognition deepened. Wriothesley wasn’t a man of grand gestures. He wasn’t the type to promise the world. Instead, he moved with a subtle persistence, a steady presence that didn’t demand but offered. A reminder to take care of yourself. A hand hovering just close enough to catch you if you stumbled. You fought it, of course—fought the instinct to lean, fought the warmth of knowing someone noticed.

Then came the night your car gave out. He offered to drive you home, and you bristled at the thought of accepting. But Wriothesley was stubborn, more stubborn than you in that moment, and the keys were already in his hand before your protest was finished.

When the car idled at your place, his words carried the weight of everything he hadn’t said before.

“You know you can rely on me sometimes, right? It won’t mean you’re losing your independence. I want to be the person you can lean on.”

There was a softness in his tone, maybe romantic flourish—but also quiet conviction, a truth spoken as naturally as breathing.