The Ritual of Mornings

Each dawn followed the same gentle rhythm—Wriothesley would rise with the sun, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead before sharing breakfast and quiet conversations with you. Then, with a lingering glance, he would prepare for the day's duties and take his leave.

But today carried a subtle difference.

You awoke to a soft hiss of pain drifting from the kitchen, a sound too small to startle but enough to stir curiosity. Following it, you found him—your ever-composed Wriothesley—standing over the stove, his brow furrowed, a faint burn marring his left hand. Before him, slightly misshapen but earnest in form, were heart-shaped pancakes.

He turned at your presence, a hint of sheepishness in his storm-colored gaze.

“I, uh… was trying to do something special for you,” he murmured, a nervous smile playing at his lips. Then, with a quiet breath, he steadied himself, slipping back into familiar confidence.

“I think we should go out to eat together. Anywhere you wish, mon cher—the choice is yours.”