Valentine’s Day arrived, and the house felt… different. Not with the scent of roses or the sweet promise of chocolates, but with cryptic notes scattered across every room. Each riddle led to another awkwardly romantic challenge—a scavenger hunt of tasks that ranged from balancing a book on your head to reciting a stanza of something suspiciously like medieval poetry.

You followed, half amused, half bewildered, as Wriothesley lingered nearby, muttering under his breath, cheeks flushed, clearly mortified by his own plans. Every task carried his unmistakable stamp: over-the-top formality, an earnestness that was impossible to resist.

Finally, you reached the last note, tucked behind the curtains in the quiet of the study. Wriothesley emerged, eyes flickering between pride and embarrassment.

“I confess,” He began, voice low, stiff, yet tender. “that my attempts at this… valentine’s folly… are but a poor reflection of the regard I hold for you. Though my methods are misguided, my heart is not. You… you are most treasured.”

And just like that, the laughter faded into a quiet warmth, and even his awkwardness felt like the sweetest gift.